


run away home

by hattalove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Horses, Injury Recovery, M/M, Racing, Slow Burn, also there's a nsfw piece of art, blink-and-you-miss-it niam, just to warn everyone, liam is a horse trainer, niall is a physiotherapist, the author's note is out of control i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 106,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hattalove/pseuds/hattalove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Louis stands, in the middle of a clearing with his hands in his pockets, and stares. This boy—</i>God<i>, this gorgeous, gorgeous boy. He seems so clumsy, confused at the best of times, but there’s a wisdom about him as he speaks, a maturity that belies his age. </i></p><p>
  <i>Louis is hopelessly, wildly attracted to him.</i>
</p><p>or, louis is a successful jockey down on his luck, struggling to get his life back on track after an injury. harry has a horse, a house fit for a prince, and a broken heart.</p><p>it takes them a while to figure out that they need each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> she's alive!
> 
> it has been a While since i posted anything - like a year, to be more precise. oops. i guess i'm back now, with another one of those fics that was supposed to be about a quarter of its actual length. double oops.
> 
> i'd like to take advantage of this space to ramble about how nervous i am, but i'd also like to spare everyone the dramatics, so i'm going to go ahead and just say that I AM VERY NERVOUS AND ANXIOUS AND UNSURE. this fic is a really ugly tiny bird that i'm about to throw out of the nest - on one hand, i'm worried it won't learn how to fly, but on the other, i can finally have some peace and quiet, so. you win some you lose some.
> 
> down to business now: i would like to say the biggest, massive-est thank you to the lovely [aaron](http://philtatoslouis.tumblr.com) for taking on this monster. he has been an absolute dream to work with, and i am just in awe of his skills and talent and dedication to going on this ridiculous journey with me. this fic wouldn't be anywhere close to what it is without him, his encouragement and his very enthusiastic love for it. you can find his gorgeous art throughout the story, or in a masterpost [here](http://philtatoslouis.tumblr.com/post/141741486534/im-so-happy-to-publish-my-contribution-to-this) in all its hq glory (including a bonus simon caricature that's possibly my favourite thing to ever exist). please, please send him some love! 
> 
> another v special thank you to tashie, who has been so supportive of me and this fic that it made me cry on the regular; and finally a thank you to all my pals who helped me name the horses - you're all the best ♥
> 
> as far as the fic is concerned, i'd like to warn everyone that i took huge - _huge_ \- artistic liberties. this is most definitely not how horse trainers work in the UK, nor can a completely unknown, untrained seven-year-old mare go on to enter in grade one races in the span of a year. but this fic was born after an entire day spent watching horse movies (has everyone seen seabiscuit? tobey maguire's in it), and i loved the drama, so. in many aspects, this is probably more hollywood than real life. a day at the races usually involves a lot less kissing, too, but i hope you can all forgive me for that.
> 
> a couple of links: at one point in the fic, louis references catherine tate's character [derek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4keg7cuHb0). real life louis has also referenced him before (i'm sure we all fondly remember "how very dare you"). at another point in the fic, something happens regarding a [scarf](https://www.lyst.com/accessories/burberry-jacquard-wool-cotton-and-cashmere-scarf-topaz-green/?product_gallery=62963873), and it's so pretty that i wanted everyone to have a visual.
> 
> and FINALLY, to conclude the world's longest author's note - a shoutout to everyone who, like me, was that person in primary school with the horse stationery and horse stickers and horse pencil case. you’re all invited to my house. we can watch black beauty and cry.
> 
> enjoy ♥

“I’ve gained weight,” says Louis.

“Stop being a fucking idiot,” Niall replies.

Louis, as the grown man that he most certainly is, does not pout. He ignores Niall’s frown and his insistent hands, and resumes poking at his own stomach. 

“Can you—“ Niall starts, but Louis doesn’t let him finish. 

“No. I need you to participate in my pity party.” 

Niall whacks him. “Bend. _Now_.” 

“But I already bent—“ 

“Again.” 

Louis huffs, lets go of his skin and instead puts his hands flat on the table the way he’s supposed to. He stares at the blank ceiling of the exercise room as he takes a deep breath. _Three, two, one_ , he counts out in his head – mostly out of habit – and tenses his muscles. He lifts his leg, easy, then starts pulling ankle to thigh, like Niall taught him all those months ago. 

“Good,” says the Irishman in question, standing by with his hands on his hips in case Louis needs help. 

It’s infuriating, is what it is. Louis is a bloody adult. His mother taught him how to walk approximately twenty-three years ago, and he’s—in pain. Ow, mother _fucker_ —

“Too fast,” Niall says. “Again.” 

Louis would much appreciate if he sounded a little less smug about it. He’d tell him as much, too, but he’s too busy hissing as he stretches his leg back out, feeling things shift in his knee as it goes from White Hot Searing Agony to Normal Dull Throbbing. 

“I want a new leg,” he tells the ceiling. 

The ceiling, in Niall’s voice, replies: “Tough bloody chance. Get off.” 

Louis obeys, though it makes him feel mildly humiliated. He’s hurting, and miserable, and his vest is drenched with sweat, because Niall is a tyrant. 

“Don’t tell me we’re doing wall squats.”

“We’re doing wall squats,” Niall says brightly, brandishing that ugly blue ball of his. “Come on. I’ve got another patient at three.” 

“I thought I was special,” Louis mumbles, too tired to rib him in earnest. He feels somewhat defeated as he leans back against the wall and relaxes his shoulders, slowly rolling down and back up. It doesn’t feel like anything is happening, or like he’s getting better – he’s been here for weeks, just stuck in an endless loop of leg lifts and quad sets and step-ups, and the pain is the same, always the same. 

“Just do your work, Louis,” Niall says, kind, seemingly out of nowhere, like he’s following Louis’s train of thought. “You’re doing well. The screws are out, scars are all healed, your doctor says everything is working the way it should—“ 

“Is it,” Louis deadpans, rolling up a little too fast when his knee twinges. “Last I checked, I was still walking with a cane.” 

Niall gives him a nasty look. He waits for Louis to finish his set of ten, then takes the ball back, as fed up with Louis’s attitude as Louis is with the concept of physiotherapy. 

Louis goes about changing his top, digging in his backpack for a spare shirt while Niall flips through his pretentious patient journal. 

“How’s Thursday sound?” he asks. 

“Fine, whatever, ” Louis answers, short, already seeing himself stretched out on the sofa with a tub of ice cream. He regrets the tone as soon as the words come out of his mouth, but he’s too proud to take them back. 

None of this is Niall’s fault—hell, Niall has been nothing but helpful ever since Louis hobbled into his office on a pair of crutches. He’s just the only one who’s around right now, and he’ll take whatever Louis throws at him in terse silence, used to the outbursts. 

There was a time, very, very long ago, when Louis wasn’t angry every second of every day. It feels like a snapshot of a different life now, a different person.

“One o’clock,” Niall says, now standing next to him. “If you’re late, I’m going to make you do step-ups down in the lobby. See how everyone else who comes here to get better deals with you being a child.” 

“I’m not—“ Louis starts, but forces himself to bite his tongue. “Nevermind. No tardiness. Got it, Mr Horan, sir.” 

Niall takes the bait, and bares his teeth in a grin. He opens his arms, and Louis steps into the hug gratefully, still jittery but content in the knowledge that this routine of theirs will never change. 

“See you Thursday,” he says, and pats Niall on the back, “Thanks.” 

He makes his way down the stairs one at a time, pointedly ignoring the lift. The sound of his cane hitting the floor follows him like a shadow.

*

“You’re in a great mood,” is how Liam opens the conversation, waiting for Louis to fold himself into the passenger seat.

“Thanks for noticing,” Louis replies drily. He puts his seatbelt on, and ruffles Liam’s hair in greeting. 

It’s warm inside the car, vents on full blast and seats radiating artificial heat, steaming up the windows against the autumn chill. Liam is dripping sweat behind the wheel, fidgeting uncomfortably. 

“You cold?” Louis asks, dry, as he takes his shoes off and puts his feet up on the dashboard, stretching out his legs and angling his ankles just right. He already feels better, here with Liam.

“Yep,” Liam replies, grinning, looking at Louis with those annoying happy sparkles in his eyes. He knows, of course, how much Louis hates being cold. Knows that the chill of Louis’s hospital room got under his skin and never quite went away. 

They pull away from the curb, into the early afternoon traffic that’s starting to thicken already. It’s wet outside, though not quite raining. Louis watches headlights and lit up shopfronts as they melt in the puddles and spill down the street, yellow and orange and golden. 

The radio is turned down, barely audible, spelling a conversation that Louis probably won’t want to have. He stays quiet. Contemplates falling asleep. 

“So,” Liam starts. 

“So,” Louis repeats, flipping down the visor to check he’s not got anything in his teeth. “Have you had a nice day?” 

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Liam says, waving thanks to a bus that lets him through. Louis looks at him out of the corner of his eye to try and figure out what this is about. Liam is an excellent liar, but he doesn’t usually bother around him.

“Let’s see,” he says. “I didn’t have any proper breakfast, because you refused to come over early and cook me some. It was raining in the morning, which means I’ve been in pain since then, and I just voluntarily subjected myself to two hours of torture. I’m fantastic.” 

Liam snorts. “It’s not torture, Louis. It’s meant to help.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, poking his cane where it’s leaning against the seat. “Look, just—tell me what you want, bloody hell. We’re not fifteen.” 

Liam swerves the car wildly to avoid a pothole. He’s got his lip trapped between his teeth, all but chewing on it. “We should probably talk about it when we get to yours. I can make you dinner? To make up for breakfast, I mean.” 

“What the fuck,” Louis says, suddenly afraid. Liam doesn’t cook for him voluntarily. Ever. “Did someone die? Is—is something wrong with your mum? Did you and Soph break up again, because I swear to _God_ —“ 

“I want to go back to work,” Liam interrupts. The silence that follows is absolute.

Louis looks straight ahead, unblinking. The sky outside has gone an ugly, muddy grey, and he can feel the impending storm in his bones. 

“Oh,” he says finally. 

Liam reaches out a hand, probably trying to console him, but pulls it right back. “Look, I—it’s not an immediate thing. I don’t have anything lined up, if that’s what you think, I haven’t been talking to people behind your back.” 

To Louis’s surprise, that does make him feel better – and selfish, so selfish. “Thanks,” he says, rolling the sound around in his mouth until he figures out what to say next. He knew this was coming, of course. Liam isn’t his bloody mother, he’s not obligated to—

“I want you to know, though,” he interrupts Louis’s messy thoughts, “I won’t do it. If…if you don’t think you can do this on your own yet, I can wait. It’s not—it’s not more important to me than you, you know that.” 

Louis’s chest feels tight. It takes him a second to register that they’ve stopped, parked neatly in a row of cars that all look familiar, because they’re in front of Louis’s building, and oh, it’s raining. 

“Liam,” he says, a bit of a scratch in his voice. “Liam, for God’s sake.” 

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, like he’s the one who should be apologising. Louis takes one look at him, wringing his hands and looking into the floor, and leans over the console to pull him into a hug. It puts pressure on his hip, his leg, just this side of uncomfortable, but he figures he can take it for thirty seconds. 

“No,” he says. “You can’t just sit around forever because of me. It’s been long enough, yeah? You deserve to go back. I know how many offers you’ve turned down.” 

Liam pulls away, frowning. “You read my emails?” 

“I just know you’re good,” Louis grins. 

Liam huffs. He look at Louis, then runs a hand through his hair, still unsure. 

“Liam,” Louis says, stern. “We’re going upstairs, and you’re calling the last person who made you an offer.” 

“The last person who made me an offer was Simon.” 

Louis blinks in shock. “Simon? As in Simon Cowell, our former boss, with whom you almost got into a fistfight because of me? That Simon?” 

“Stop being dramatic,” Liam says fondly. “Yes, that Simon. Last I heard, Roberts quit on him, so I reckon he’s desperate.” 

“Wow,” says Louis. 

He hasn’t heard from Simon at all, not since—not since. He’d got his last paycheck when he was barely conscious at the hospital, delivered by someone from the legal department without a single kind word, without so much as a thank you, and that was it. That was all that Simon had to say to him, after so many months; after years. 

“You’re not thinking of going back to him, are you?” 

Liam looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “Don’t be daft, of course not. After the way he talked about you? No way in hell.” 

“You had it good there, though,” Louis points out. “First class horses, schmoozing with all of his important friends – and he isn’t exactly poor, you know.” 

“I’m not going back to Simon,” Liam says, opening his door. “I’d rather be unemployed forever.” 

Louis follows suit, carefully getting himself out of the car, backpack on one shoulder and fingers wrapped firmly around his cane. He barely has time to register the rain before Liam is there, holding an umbrella over the two of them. Louis pats him on the stomach in thanks, and they being a slow, shuffling walk towards the entrance.

“It’s not too late to become a fireman, you know, ” Louis says. Liam pinches his nipple.

*

*

So it happens, then, that the two of them begin a tireless search for work.

That is to say, Liam comes over twice a week, they order takeout, and half-heartedly browse the Internet. With frequent pauses for fail videos, because Liam is twelve and inexplicably fond of them. 

“This probably isn’t the right way to go about it,” Louis says one Friday, stretched out on his living room floor, stomach full of pizza and his whole body aching after a particularly grueling session Niall put him through. “You should call people who are actually _in_ racing.” 

Sophia, who’s supervising them for the night, hums in agreement. 

“Maybe,” says Liam. “Like I said, though, it’s not that pressing.” 

“That was a month ago, babe,” Sophia chimes in. “You have to find something now, nobody will be looking for a trainer when the season is in full swing.” 

“You’re supposed to be supportive,” Liam pouts. 

“I am being supportive, sweetie.” 

Louis giggles. He feels warm and lazy, surprisingly content considering the nature of this meeting. It’s going slow because they haven’t been trying, not _really_ , but Liam is a damn good trainer. He’ll find something soon, and Louis will have to start dealing with everyday life like an adult again. 

It’s a horrific, terrifying thought. 

“Maybe we should buy a horse,” he says, thinking out loud more than anything else. He’s taken a few painkillers today, and they’ve left him surprisingly clear-headed. “Open a stable, like. You could train, and I’d be the pretty face that everyone wants to interview.” 

“Right,” Liam snorts. “Neither of us has the money to buy anything above lower class three, Louis. Even if we trained it up from scratch—“ 

“No self-respecting jock would race it, yeah, I know. It’s just a suggestion, don’t bite my head off.” 

Liam sighs, fingers dancing over the keyboard of his laptop. Louis can just about see the screen, bright in the late afternoon darkness that’s slowly creeping in through the windows.

Which means that he sees, in full Technicolor and real time, when Liam types _gumtree.com_ into the browser bar. 

Sophia stops reading her tome of a book – Nietzsche, or some such – and leans over his shoulder, interested. 

“What are you _doing_ ,” Louis says, crawling closer and propping his head up on Liam’s thigh instead of a pillow. “Get out of there. I feel like we’re all going to get murdered just looking through it.” 

Liam rolls his eyes – Louis can’t see, but he knows. “It’s not that bad. And we’ve looked everywhere else, there’s no harm in trying this.” 

“It’s _Gumtree_. You’re not going to find a job—“ 

“Shush,” says Sophia, and pats him on the head like he’s a toddler. 

Louis shuts up, crosses his arms, and waits. 

Liam clicks the search bar, thinks for a few seconds, and finally types in two words: _horse trainer_. _1 ad for horse trainer in All Classifieds, United Kingdom_ , the site informs him, and Louis sits up in surprise. 

There is, indeed, an ad. _Trainer wanted for seven-year-old mare_ , it says, and not much else. _Looking to introduce my horse to racing and jumps. Small, energetic, loves to run. Please call for more information. Thank you. H Styles._

There’s a second of silence as they all read over it. Sophia makes an amicable noise, then goes back to her book, but Liam keeps looking at the screen with his brows furrowed, eyes going over the text again and again. 

There’s stomping from upstairs, probably the neighbours and their brood of children coming home from yet another trip. Louis looks towards the ceiling, watches his lamp swing from side to side. He almost misses the movement in the corner of his eye.

Liam reaches for his phone. Louis reaches for Liam, and slaps his hand away. 

“What was that for?” Liam asks, eyes big and hurt. 

Louis is speechless for a second. “You can’t—you’re not thinking of actually calling this person. Tell me you’re not.” 

“It’s my potential employer, Louis. Leave me alone.” 

“ _H Styles_ is not a real name.” 

Liam ignores him, like he usually does when Louis gets too obnoxious for his taste. 

As Louis watches him tap in the numbers, he unconsciously brings his fingers to his mouth and bites down on one of his nails. Liam can hold his own in any fight, not to mention the fact that he can’t get murdered over the phone – that’s not what this is about, and Louis is self-aware enough to admit it. 

It’s been a vague, distant kind of thought, Liam going back to work. Louis thought that maybe, just maybe, they really could figure something out together, that he could keep Liam’s company and the free rides until he was ready to let go himself. 

That’s not how things work, though, and he knows that, he _knows_. He gave Liam his blessing, and he has to live with it. 

He just—wishes he didn’t have to. 

Nobody ever said that Louis is a mature person. 

Liam wraps an arm around him, like he knows exactly what’s going on in Louis’s head, and puts the call on speakerphone. It’s just gone half six, not late enough to be offensive, but a time when some people prefer to ignore the telephone and settle in with a cup of tea. Louis hopes that H Styles is that kind of person. 

“Hello?” says a voice on the other end of the line, ruining Louis’s feeble optimism. “Who’s there?” 

It’s deep, the voice. A little sleepy, rumbly, though that might be the connection acting up, and—young. Really, really young. 

“Hi,” Liam says cheerfully. “My name is Liam, I’m calling about your ad?” 

“What ad?” the voice asks. 

Liam blinks, scratching the back of his head. “Um—the ad. Maybe I’ve typed the number wrong, I’m so sorry—“ 

“There’s an ad with your number on Gumtree,” Sophia breaks in, no-nonsense. “Says you’re looking for a horse trainer.” 

There’s silence. The line crackles as somebody breathes on the other end. 

“Does it say which horse?” H Styles asks, finally, a strange tone to his voice. “Sorry, I—it must have been my cousin, he fancies himself an expert on racing, he’s been telling me to sign Marshmallow up—“ 

“Marshmallow,” Louis interrupts. 

“Yes—how many of you are there? But, uh, yes. She’s a great runner, but I don’t know anything about racing, I’m not sure if it’s the right fit for her, you know?” 

Louis—oh God, Louis smiles, entirely against his own will. This H Styles, a disembodied voice on the other end of the line, is concerned with his horse’s wellbeing. 

After experiencing the Cowell stable, where Simon runs his animals into the ground until they physically can’t get up anymore, Louis can’t help appreciating a little bit of humanity. 

Liam, too, seems to be somewhat fond of H Styles already. “Tell you what, Mr Styles.” 

“Harry, please,” the voice says. Liam’s grin stretches. 

“Tell you what, Harry. Why don’t we meet for a chat? I’ve got plenty of experience, you can ask me anything you’d like to know about racing. Maybe I could look at this horse of yours? You never know, you might have the next Foinavon on your hands.” 

“Isn’t he the one that won after everyone else fell out of the race?” Harry asks, but Louis thinks he hears a hint of laughter in his voice. 

Liam, for all his earlier confidence, grows sheepish again. “That’s not—bollocks, I meant that she could win in the big races one day, even though nobody knows who she is.” 

“I know what you meant,” says Harry, cheeky. “And I’d love to meet you, actually. I, uh—how would you feel about coming to mine, say, tomorrow at five? I can text you the sat nav coordinates, it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere.” 

Liam bounces in place, obviously pleased. Louis can’t bring himself to be anything but happy for him. 

“Sounds good,” he says. “Can I bring a friend?” 

_Me?_ Louis mouths, fake-blinking through tears. Liam rolls his eyes. 

“Of course,” Harry says, the _duh_ plain to hear. “I’ll let you go now, but it was nice talking to you. Sorry, uh—sorry about the confusion.” 

“It was no bother,” Liam reassures. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Harry. Thanks for giving me a chance.” 

“My pleasure. Bye,” he says, in that awkward way most people adopt when they’re not sure how to end a call, and his voice – very pleasant to listen to, Louis must admit – is replaced by the _beep beep beep_ of a lost connection. 

“I can’t believe this,” Liam says, grinning at his phone in shock. “Soph, did you hear, he said—“ 

“I heard,” Sophia smiles indulgently and gives him a kiss on the head. “Congratulations, babe.” 

“You’re not employed yet,” Louis points out, half joking. It’s worth it for the identical scornful looks they give him. “But congrats. I’m proud of you.” 

Liam’s grin softens into a smile. “Thanks,” he says, and looks back to his mobile. 

_Harry Styles_ , he types out carefully above the last number he’d called. 

Louis stares at the letters until they blur; until the words stop making sense in his head.

 _Harry Styles_.

*

“You have _got_ to be joking.”

Liam looks like he shares the sentiment, but can’t quite find the words to express it. 

It is precisely four fifty-five in the afternoon, a cool, sunny autumn day, and they’ve just parked in front of the Styles residence. Which has its own parking lot, because it’s bloody _ginormous_. 

“This is a summer home for the Queen. This is a trick, Liam, there is no way that kid you talked to yesterday lives here.” 

“Maybe he’s the teenage heir of a fortune,” Liam says. “Or a Youtuber.” 

Louis shakes his head. Blinks once, twice, three times, but the palace in front of them remains unchanged, tall and imposing and lit orange by the settting sun. 

“We’re going to be late,” Liam says, and pulls the key out of the ignition hesitantly, like he’s not entirely sure if they’re being pranked. 

Louis opens the door. There’s gravel on the ground, but his cane sinks right through it into the soft soil underneath, wobbly as he leans on it while getting out. It’s going to be muddy by the time they make it to the front door, and he’s going to have to leave it behind lest he get dirt on the carpets inside, undoubtedly Persian. Goodie. 

Off the parking lot, the gravel turns into a real stone path, much easier to walk on. Louis doesn’t have to pay as much attention to staying upright, which gives him a chance to look at the house again. He’s probably not going to stop believing it’s an apparition, not even once he’s standing in it. 

It’s all tall, cream-coloured walls and ornamented windows, a main house and two wings that look more like the turrets of a castle. It seems to gleam, encased in an translucent layer of gold or silver or diamonds. It reeks of opulence, of money. 

They walk through a wide open iron gate, Liam leading with a somewhat unsure step, and stand in the yard. It’s not as manicured as Louis would have expected – a few wild rose bushes, ivy that’s starting to creep up the walls, a murky little pond. There are no rectangular hedges, no clipped lawn, just overgrown grass, dipping in places with what looks like hoof prints. 

“This is…I don’t know what this is,” Liam says, looking up at the gleaming windows. “I don’t want to work for another Simon.” 

Louis understands where he’s coming from – he, too, feels a prickle of familiarity at the back of his neck. Simon’s main estate is much bigger than this, but still eerily similar, down to the golden knocker on the front door. It makes Louis uneasy, even as lovely as it looks in the sunset. 

He’s just about to suggest that they turn around and go, maybe tell Harry Styles that they’ve had a change of heart, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

The door opens, slow but steady, and in it stands—a boy. 

“Hello,” he grins. Even from this far away, Louis can make out dimples in his cheeks. “I hope one of you is Liam.” 

“Yes,” Liam says immediately, barely missing a beat. “That’s me, hi.” 

He strides down the path with squared shoulders, professional and confident, the way he’d been when Louis first met him. He’s clearly not as— _affected_ as Louis is.

He moves forward, too, not once looking away from the lone figure of Harry Styles – and what a figure it is, _Christ_. Even in a mismatched ensemble of wellies, skinny jeans and a sheepskin jacket, he looks just about good enough to eat. 

Louis’s gaze lingers on his thighs, thick and gorgeous, and wonders, very briefly, what they would feel like wrapped around his head. His brain screams at him for being outrageously inappropriate, but he can’t help himself. It’s been months since he’s been in any kind of attractive company, any company at all that wasn’t Liam or Niall. 

He walks closer, careful, and drinks in every new detail in Harry’s face, the curls and waves and twists in his long, long hair; the way it falls across his shoulders, like he’s a painting instead of a real, live human. 

He’s got gorgeous eyes, Harry does, sparkling, as green as the grass underfoot, and lips the colour of cherries. He looks like a bloody prince, both at home and completely out of place in this castle of his. 

It’s the imperfections, though, that somehow make him gorgeous enough to be an apparition. It’s the light, patchy stubble over his upper lip, the birthmark on his jaw; the way he pouts like a child when he introduces himself and Louis takes a while to shake his hand. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s palm. “I’m Louis.” 

“Liam’s friend?” Harry raises an eyebrow, shifting a piece of gum around the inside of his mouth, and manages to look endearing, rather than like a posh twat. 

“That’s right,” Louis replies, trying his best to be polite and charming, and resolutely not thinking about how big Harry’s hand feels. “I don’t trust him to make decisions on his own, see—“ 

“That’s enough,” Liam steps in, smiling fakely. He wraps an arm around Louis’s shoulders and pulls him back a step. 

Louis can pinpoint the second that Harry’s gaze slides off his face and down, to where his hand is firmly wrapped around his cane. Of course.

It had been good while it lasted, thinking about how beautiful Harry was. He’s going to look at Louis differently now, with less cheeky spark and more pity – that’s the way it always goes.

“Um,” Harry says, quickly filling out the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—I can have her brought here, if you’d like.” 

Louis bats Liam’s hands off him, straightens out his coat and his dignity. “That’s not necessary,” he says, just this side of clipped. “We can walk.” 

Harry frowns, but nods. “Sure. Just—you know. It’s not a problem. If you need anything at all, let me know.” 

Louis feels a pang of regret. Harry’s sweet, and genuine about it too, but he just—he doesn’t need people going to extra lengths for him, not because of this, at least. His leg is useless, and that’s fine. He’s re-learned how to walk. He doesn’t need this gorgeous boy’s pity, doesn’t need anybody else’s. He just wants to be. 

He should look into making his cane invisible, one of these days. 

“Anyways,” says Harry, clapping his hands together and pulling the door closed after himself. He’s looking at Louis still, and there doesn’t seem to be anything but happy interest in his eyes. 

Louis is probably making it up, though. Just wishing too hard for a person who’d treat him the same they treat everyone. 

“Right this way, gentlemen,” he says, and then his back is to them, squeaking down the stone path in his wellies. 

“What was that?” Liam whispers, hovering close to him. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis dismisses him, pushing forward.

Now that the house – palace – is behind them, Louis has a chance to look around. Harry’s got a good-sized chunk of land here, gorgeous and tranquil for how close to the city it is. The very tip of the Gherkin is still visible above the treetops, but it seems light years away. They’re surrounded by green, green grass, small hills stretching all the way to the horizon like waves in a sea. There’s even a cluster of trees, something that might pass for a forest if Louis were to look hard enough. 

Harry turns off the path, and Louis has to slow and wait for Liam, who keeps a steadying hand on his elbow. Clumsily, they walk on, slip-sliding downhill. 

There’s a stable to their left, Louis notices, impressively large and new-looking. He thinks that’s probably where Harry is leading them, but they walk right on past, and Louis realises that the doors and windows are all shut. 

“That’s strange,” Liam says, following Louis’s gaze. “I hope he hasn’t got anything stalled in there.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, but Louis can tell they’re both thinking about Simon. He’s got what he calls a _foolproof training tactic_ : when a horse disobeys, he stalls it separately for the night, in complete darkness and silence. Both Liam and the vet had told him, time and time again, that it was unsafe and traumatizing. For Simon, that was the point. 

At the time, Louis had settled for keeping the horses he rode out of trouble. It makes him sick to his stomach now, thinking of all the others who didn’t have someone looking out for them. 

“There she is,” Harry says suddenly, leagues ahead, and the softness in his voice tells Louis he isn’t speaking to them. 

Sure enough, as the ground evens out under their feet and they leave the stable behind, a large meadow comes into view. And on it – Louis breathes a sigh of relief – a sizeable herd of horses. They look relaxed, heads to the ground as they graze, tails swishing back and forth. 

It’s only then that Louis realises he can smell them, and he breathes in a deep lungful of air. It almost makes him cry with how familiar it feels; it’s home. 

They follow after Harry, weaving around horses big and small, chestnut brown and inky black and dapple grey. They all vary in height and build, not quite the picture of a perfect thoroughbred stable. Louis even spots a pony or two. 

“These all yours?” he calls. 

Harry turns around, the chilly breeze in the air whipping his hair around his face. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, burying his chin into the lining of his jacket. “Absolute nightmares, the lot of them.” 

As if on cue, a young horse sneaks up behind him, poking its nose into his pocket. It’s a yearling at most, too gangly to be any older, but it’s quite tall already, and impressively filled out. Somebody clearly takes good care of it. 

“Hey!” Harry squeaks – _squeaks_ – and jumps in surprise. He looks over his shoulder. “Bubble! No treats today, stop it. No.” 

He takes the horse’s head and gently pushes it away, eyes big an apologetic. Louis bites his lip to stop a smile. 

“Bubble?” he asks, teasing. He’s come closer now, and the filly looks at him as he says her name, clearly intrigued. 

“I think it’s a sweet name,” Liam pipes up. What an arsekisser. 

“Thank you,” Harry beams at him, then looks at Louis with victory clear in his eyes, like he’s won some enormous fight they’d been having. “See, Liam can appreciate an aptly-named horse. I’d like to see you try to come up with a name when you’ve still got horse placenta on your hands.” 

“Gross,” Louis says, but then Harry’s words catch up with him. “Did you deliver her?” 

Harry smiles at the ground, cheeks red from the chill. “Not really, no,” he says. “I just helped. She was—“ and he moves to Bubble, who’s still standing around watching their pockets, then covers her ears, “she was an accident. My mother bought a colt, and we didn’t geld him in time, so Bubble just kind of…happened. We weren’t sure how far along her dam was, exactly, and we, uh. We weren’t expecting her to go into labour yet.” 

Louis stands, in the middle of a clearing with his hands in his pockets, and stares. This boy— _God_ , this gorgeous, gorgeous boy. He seems so clumsy, confused at the best of times, but there’s a wisdom about him as he speaks, a maturity that belies his age. 

Louis is hopelessly, wildly attracted to him. 

“How old is she?” Louis asks, and fishes a sugar cube out of his pocket. When he extends it on an open palm, Bubble trots to him immediately, lapping it up before he has a chance to blink. Her whiskers tickle, but her nose is velvety soft, familiar. 

“Fourteen months,” Harry says. There’s an adorable pout on his face when Louis looks at him, bottom lip jutting out in discontent. “And I would appreciate if you didn’t feed her without permission.” 

Louis pulls his hand back immediately, startling Bubble. Liam is laughing at him, unsubtly trying to hide it in his sleeve. 

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “I’m probably messing up her diet.” 

Harry blinks, head cocked to the side like a curious spaniel. “No, that’s—it’s just that she’s really quick to bond with people. She’ll be sad if you never show up again.” 

She is, indeed, already butting her head against Louis’s chest, demanding scratches. 

“Well,” he smiles as he pets her cheek, “then I’ll just have to keep coming back.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything. Louis thinks he can see the beginnings of a dimple in his cheek, though. 

They get back to walking eventually, with Bubble trailing after them. Harry points out a few other horses, throws out names like _Francis_ and _Butterfly_ , and Louis, hilariously enough, finds himself hanging onto every word that comes out of his mouth. 

“Mate,” Liam pokes him in the side, just this side of too hard. “Mate, it’s only been half an hour. I can’t believe you’ve got it this bad for him already.” 

“Do not,” Louis hisses, poking back. “I’ve just got the decency to pay attention when he’s saying something.” 

“Right. _Then I’ll just have to keep coming back_?” 

“Shut up,” Louis says. There’s a burn in his cheeks, but it’s from the cold – nothing else. 

The mysterious Marshmallow, as it turns out, is grazing in the very back, keeping an eye on the herd. She’s—underwhelming. 

“Ta-dah,” is how Harry presents her, holding out his arms. “Meet Marshmallow. Marshmallow, this is Liam, and that’s Louis.” 

Louis watches, out of the corner of his eye, as Liam surveys her with growing horror. Louis feels bad for him, he does – he’d really thought this would be it, his ticket back in the proverbial saddle. 

But the fact of the matter is, this is no race horse. She’s pretty enough, dirty white and solid in build, but she’s so—ordinary. Very short, for one, no more than fifteen hands, a little too shallow in the chest and bent low in the back, her mane overgrown and hiding her face. 

Harry can tell, from the terseness of the silence, that things aren’t going well. 

“I know she doesn’t look like much,” he says, and whispers a _sorry_ to her as he pats her flank. “But she’s—she can do it, I promise you. I’m not sure if she’ll know how to compete, but she can _run_ , Liam. She just needs a little help.” 

Liam starts pacing, deep in thought. Louis leans on his cane cautiously, stretching forward to touch Marshmallow’s neck. She lets him, unbothered. 

“Louis,” Liam says, clearly distressed. “What do you think?” 

Louis’s mouth goes dry. He takes a hold of Liam’s shoulder, looks into Harry’s beautiful, unsure eyes, then the horse grazing next to them. 

She looks like a trail horse, or maybe one fit for riding school, calm as she is. Louis can’t imagine her clearing hurdles alongside the top runners, can’t imagine her outrunning Mon Mome, or Coneygree, or anything other than a tractor. 

His knee twinges, protesting the weight he’s putting on it as he sways in place, thinking. Harry says she can do it, and Louis—Louis has no reason not to believe him. 

“I think,” he says, and actually _hears_ Harry’s breathing stop, “I think she deserves a chance.”

*

“This isn’t a proper course,” Liam says.

“No shit,” says Louis. 

The thing about princely estates in the English countryside is – they’re not meant to be training grounds. Harry’s has a rickety wooden corral and a roofed riding hall that’s seen much better days, but that’s about it.

Which is how they’ve come to be standing behind the stable, looking over an oval of packed dirt. 

“Matty made it,” Harry explains, holding Marshmallow’s lead in one hand and a saddle in the other. “My cousin, I mean. Ages ago. He said it was good enough to train on.” 

Liam shakes his head. “Once a week, maybe. You’ll need something proper if you’re serious about this.” 

Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” he nods. “I can, uh—are there people who make race courses to order?” 

Louis grins, hoping the falling darkness will hide his face. It’s gotten even colder, and he’s stolen Liam’s scarf, but, as cute as Harry is, he wishes they could get this over with and go inside. 

According to Harry, there is no one around who can ride. Liam’s had to step up to the plate in his sagging jeans and Timberlands, and Louis is supposed to be his eyes. 

Harry hands the horse over and steps back. He looks cold, too, the tip of his nose tinged red. 

Marshmallow stands relaxed and still while they tack her up, her eyes almost closed. Louis gets to give her the bit, and she nuzzles into his hand while she chews on it, trying to get it to settle in her mouth. 

“Watch it,” Liam says, adjusting the stirrups. “Make sure she’s not putting it under her tongue.” 

“I’ve tacked a horse before, you know,” Louis replies, but still bends down to check. Everything seems to be fine – she’s still just standing, unmoving, like she couldn’t care less about what’s happening around her. 

Louis isn’t quite sure if that’s a good thing. He’s ridden plenty of apathetic horses, and most of them couldn’t be bothered to actually race. 

Liam takes her from there, reins in one hand and walking firmly in front of her. He’s testing her, Louis knows, but seeing Liam so serious still makes him giggle. 

He joins Harry, who’s standing by the edge of the oval. There’s warmth radiating off his lanky frame, tantalising in its intensity. Louis can’t help but imagine opening the buttons of his jacket and pressing right up against him, warming himself down to the bone. 

The evening creeps in around them, quiet and inky black here away from the city. Louis thinks he can see the bright lights of London in the distance, hanging in the air like a dark orange cloud. There’s no noise here, though, no honking and shouting and sirens on every street corner. It’s just them – Liam, saying something Louis can’t quite make out, Harry’s little rasp of a breath, and Louis’s own heart beating loud in his ears. 

“Are you a trainer as well?” Harry asks, out of nowhere. 

He’s already watching when Louis looks up at him, chin resting on the woolen collar of his jacket, eyes sparkling. He’s not smiling this time, his lips a soft, relaxed line, but he still looks almost painfully kind. 

And he—he doesn’t know who Louis is. 

“You don’t know who I am?” 

Harry blinks, surprised. Louis takes a second to reflect on what he’s just said. 

“I meant—Jesus, sorry, I sound like a right knob. I don’t get out much,” he says, looking pointedly at his leg. 

One corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up, amused. “ _Should_ I know you?” 

Louis takes a risk. “If you want,” he says, giving him a grin. He waits a second, just long enough for his words to register, then goes on: “Not really, no. You said you don’t know much about racing, right?” 

“Right.” 

“But you knew who Foinavon was,” Louis points out. 

Harry rolls his eyes. It makes him look even younger. “Everyone knows Foinavon. They named an obstacle at Aintree after him.” 

Louis hums. “That’s true. Know any other famous horses?” 

“Um,” Harry says, biting his lip. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, and Louis resists the urge to reach out and rub it away. “Red Rum? Red Rum’s pretty famous, right?” 

“I like a man who knows his history,” Louis replies, moving just a breath closer. He could almost thread his arm through the crook of Harry’s elbow, like he wants to. “How many times did he win the National?” 

“Three,” says Harry triumphantly. “Seventy-three, seventy-four, and, uh. Um.” 

“Seventy-seven.” 

“I knew that.” 

“Sure you did,” Louis grins. “Let’s see what else you know.”

Harry turns towards him, accepting the challenge. 

“Who won this year?” Louis asks. He barely knows himself, if he’s honest, found it too difficult to just sit on his sofa and watch through cameras. He was supposed to be there. It was going to be _his_ big win.

“Oh, I do know that,” Harry smiles. “Watched it on the telly. Many Clouds.” 

“Mhm. I’ve got to come up with something more difficult, hold on.” 

He puts a hand to his forehead, pretending to be deep in thought. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he hears Harry giggle. 

“Okay, I’ve got one. The first mare to ever win the National.” 

Louis knows he’s got him as soon as he closes his mouth. Harry, bless him, tries to come up with some sort of answer, but in the end can’t do much more than shrug. 

“Too hard,” he says, and pouts again. 

God, Louis wants to—hug him. He wants to hug him quite badly, to be honest, even though they’ve barely met. 

“It was,” he allows. “Sorry. Her name was Charity, and she won in 1841. You’ll know now, for future reference.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says. He seems genuine about it, too. “I don’t know how I ever lived without knowing that.” 

“You’re a sore loser,” Louis tells him. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“Wasn’t aware this was a competition,” he smiles, all angelic. 

Louis, drawn to him like the opposite pole of a magnet, risks a small punch in the arm. It barely translates through the sheepskin, but Harry still puts an offended hand over his heart. 

This is Louis’s first real human contact in approximately six months, outside of Niall, Liam and Sophia. He’s overjoyed to find that he still knows how to talk to people, and what’s more, that he’s going to get along with this particular person like a house on fire. 

Maybe. Unless Liam decides to be a pain in the arse and pass on this horse. 

“Up for a rematch?” Harry asks, grinning like the Cheshire cat. 

Louis rubs his hands together. “Do your worst.” 

“Most National wins for a stable.” 

It startles a laugh out of Louis, just because—“Cowell. Someday Maybe, Mayfair, Golden Rose and Troubadour, all in the last fifteen years.” 

He wonders how Harry knows, self-professed racing layman that he is, but he figures it’s not that much of a surprise. Louis’s former boss is very fond of having his face plastered across all sorts of newspapers. 

Harry’s eyebrows climb up. “That was fast.”

“What can I say,” Louis shrugs, throwing out his arms as dramatically as possible. “I’m a fan.” 

“Of Cowell, really? He’s not a very nice man.” 

The urge to hug Harry comes back, ferocious. Louis only just resists. “You’re right about that,” he mumbles. His knee twinges again, demanding his attention. He’d completely forgotten about it, busy talking to Harry and leaning on his cane just so. 

He rolls his ankle a few times, then tenses the muscles in his calf, slowly working his way up like Niall taught him. It’s almost an unconscious reaction at this point. 

“Do you know him?” Harry asks. He seems to have cottoned on to Louis’s discomfort, watching him with a little less joy and a little more concern, but he doesn’t bring it up. 

“Simon?” Louis asks. “We’ve, uh—we’ve met.” 

“Then you _are_ in racing,” Harry says, a curious spark in his eyes. 

“Eh, not so much,” says Louis, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I’ve been near any of this.” 

“Oh,” Harry mumbles, a soft, small sound. “Why?” 

Louis makes a decision, just then, underneath the first few of tonight’s stars. They’re only just visible in the dark blue sky when Louis looks up, but they make him feel settled; remind him of home, of sitting in the garden with his mum after his sisters have gone off to bed and drawing constellations with his fingers. 

“Do you remember last year’s biggest racing news story?” 

Harry blinks. He thinks it’s part of the game, probably. That’s good, Louis tells himself, a few more seconds of that happy, open look on his face before he figures it out. 

“The fall at the Trial? That made it into the evening news and everything.” 

“Yep,” Louis nods. He shoves his free hand deeper into his pocket, picking at the lining. He’s nervous, almost like he’s sitting on the starting line again, a restless horse underneath him and a wide stretch of turf ahead. “Remember anything else about it?” 

“Just that the jockey survived,” he says. “That was the only thing I cared about, really. Um—was it a Cowell horse? Is that why you’re telling me this?” 

“It was. His name’s Tic Tac, but you probably wouldn’t have heard of him this year. He hasn’t had a very good season.”

Louis can’t help thinking about him as he looks out at Liam and Marshmallow, still working from the ground, him trotting ahead and her right behind. Tic Tac had been a fresh 120 the year before, still young and just this side of reckless, and Louis had been waiting for his ticket into the big races. They fit from the very first furlong.

Harry, poor thing, seems to be more confused by the minute. Louis isn’t exactly making it easy for him.

“Did you—did you train him, or something? You never said no when I asked if you were a trainer, you know.” 

“I didn’t train him,” Louis replies, kind. “Just—um. The jock, the one who fell. Do you remember his name?” 

This is, without a doubt, the most dramatic introduction Louis has ever done. It’s just that—people know him, usually, and spare him the pain of having to explain, but not Harry, oh no. Of course not. 

He picks at the fabric of his sleeve while Harry thinks, scratching off the pills and dropping them in the grass. Liam’s got Marshmallow on a lunge now. She circles him in a lazy, comfortable canter, and he watches her feet like a hawk. He’s going to get in the saddle soon. 

“The jock,” Harry murmurs. When Louis turns to look at him, he’s staring at the ground, his whole face scrunched as he thinks. “I don’t think—I know he was popular, but I—wait.” 

He pulls a phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with a thorough slide of his finger. The screen lights up a bright white, piercing through the comfortable haze of dusk and casting deep shadows across Harry’s face. 

“That’s cheating,” Louis points out, but he already knows it’s going to fall on deaf ears. He braces himself instead of arguing, both hands clutching his cane. 

“Here,” Harry almost shouts, visibly excited. “Horse racing star wounded in horrific accident. “This year’s Grand National Trial was supposed to be a ticket to the hall of fame for L—oh. _Oh_ my God.”

He actually _gapes_ , his mouth hanging open in silent shock. Louis clears his throat, feeling incredibly awkward. 

“Uh, it’s. Nice to meet you?” 

Harry looks up at him, then back down at his phone, then up again. There’s something in his eyes that looks a suspicious amount like awe. 

“This says cracked skull and five broken ribs,” he says finally, dry.

“Those healed already,” Louis replies, careful, careful. “The femur did too, for the most part, and the tib-fib. It’s just the knee that’s giving me trouble.” 

“But you—you’re—I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Louis shakes his head. The ground is suddenly much more interesting than the storm going on in Harry’s face. “You don’t have to say anything,” he shrugs. “Sorry for springing this on you. It’s not—I don’t much like talking about it.” 

It’s the understatement of the century, that. 

“No, I understand,” Harry says, almost stuttering in hurry. “I’m sorry, this is—oh, sod it. I’m Harry Styles,” he says, and offers his right hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.” 

Something ignites inside Louis’s chest, so very warm. He doesn’t wait to be asked twice and takes Harry’s hand, for the second time that day. It’s still just as big, just as nice.

Makes Louis feel just as safe. 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he says, smiling, “Really.” 

They hold on for a little longer than strangers would, both leaning in, holding each other’s eyes. Harry gives him a timid little grin, so reassuring it actually aches, and Louis gives one in return.

That, of course, is the perfect moment for Liam to swoop in. 

“Louis,” he calls, the breeze that’s picked up carrying his words. “I’m going up.” 

“I’m watching,” Louis calls back, and lets go of Harry to give the makeshift racecourse his undivided attention. It’s really gotten dark; he can’t see very much of Liam, and only a little bit more of the horse. Once Liam mounts and gets her walking, though, she’s easy enough to watch, her white coat standing out from her surroundings. 

“She looks like a ghost,” Louis points out, and Harry giggles somewhere over his shoulder. 

It’s business from there on out. Louis tries his best to focus, so as to give Liam his honest (read: only slightly embellished in favour of Marshmallow and her charming enigma of an owner) opinion. 

Thankfully, she has a lovely walk, somewhat languid but long and powerful. It looks comfortable; Louis can almost imagine being the one astride her, drawing white circles into the night. 

She’s very obviously not a youngster anymore, moving with the calm demeanor of an adult horse, one that’s used to carrying out commands. She’s quite responsive, too, easy on the rein, not yet at that age all horses seem to reach one day, when they clam up and can’t be bothered to do more than the bare minimum under saddle. 

“I think she’s alright,” he tells Liam as they walk by. “Nice form. She looked a bit sickle-hocked out on the pasture, but I don’t see it anymore.” 

Liam nods – Louis thinks he does, at least – and leans back to stop her. 

“She’s very well trained, Harry,” he says. “You did a great job.” 

Harry beams. He’s close enough that Louis can make out his features, his gleaming white teeth. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I mean—to give credit where credit is due, it was mostly my stepdad who trained her, but I _did_ help.”

Marshmallow stretches out her neck when he speaks, reaching for his pocket. She can’t quite get there, and she doesn’t move from the spot – good, that’s good – but Harry comes towards her easily, handing out something that looks like a wild apple. 

“Harry,” Louis reprimands, though it comes out sounding fond more than anything. 

Harry has the decency to looks sheepish, and steps back to let Liam get back to it. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking at Marshmallow with obvious love in his eyes. She’s chewing the apple around her bit, looking incredibly content. “I can never resist her.” 

“It’s alright,” Liam says. 

Louis blinks. Liam usually harps about things like this when he goes into trainer mode – Louis has been whacked upside the head many a time, just for sneaking Tic Tac bits of carrot out of his pocket. 

It’s probably Harry’s bloody dimples. Irresistible, they are. 

“Take notes,” he tells Louis next, and then they’re pulling away and out into the oval again, a brisk walk that turns into a trot. 

Louis, as instructed, takes notes, though only in his head. _Springy step_ , he notes, _very light_. _Good confo, low head, doesn’t fall out of pace_.

Liam has her speed up slowly, gradually, until they’re cantering by like thunder. They disappear into complete darkness at the far end, then out of the blackness and back in – Louis only has a thirty seconds or so altogether to judge what he sees, three rounds before they slow back down. Liam bounces a bit in the saddle, but it’s his fault, not the horse’s. Louis makes a mental note to rib him about it later. 

“My legs are starting to hurt,” he complains, walking her out before they try her for actual speed. 

“Boo hoo,” Louis teases, and has to do his hardest to keep scorn out of his voice. Liam hasn’t ridden in months, is just complaining like anyone else would, but—God. Louis would give anything, _anything_ , to be able to get in that saddle. 

Harry, probably through some creepy sixth sense, must know something’s wrong. He presses his shoulder against Louis’s, their first actual physical contact outside of shaking hands, and gets Liam’s attention. 

“What’s the verdict, then?” 

“Not sure yet,” says Liam, or rather his silhouette. Louis thinks he might be shaking his head. “But she feels wonderful under saddle. I’m almost suspicious, to be honest with you.”

“Suspicious?” Harry asks, confused. 

“There’s just—there’s got to be _something_ that’s not good.” 

“Not necessarily,” says Louis, swooping in before Liam accidentally offends someone, as is his wont. “She’s got great conformation, great paces. She could do hunts, even.”

“A bit too small for that, isn’t she?” asks Liam. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” Louis shrugs. “Let’s see her.” 

At the end of the day, as lovely as she is, Marshmallow can’t race if she isn’t fast enough. 

While Liam reaches down to adjust the stirrups, Louis unconsciously crosses his fingers. He _likes_ it here, already feels a little more alive with the scent of grass in his nose. He wants to come back, and she can give him a reason. 

They work to a canter easily, just light enough. When they thunder by, Liam’s already up in the stirrups, holding form and ready to let her go. Louis’s heart beats harder.

“Have you got a stopwatch, by any chance?” he asks Harry, gripping onto his cane with sweaty hands. She can do it, he thinks; she can. 

“Um. No,” he says, sounding as nervous as Louis suddenly feels. “I’ve got my phone?” 

In the next second, they’re illuminated by white light again. Harry’s face comes into perfect focus, and shocks Louis a little with how gorgeous it is. He’d thought he’d been exaggerating in his mind after the evening descended on them, but no – no, Harry really is that stunning. 

“Do you want it?” he asks, and it takes Louis a very long time to figure out what he means. 

“No,” he shakes his head. He’s too unsettled to handle anything valuable. “Just—start it when they pass you, and stop when they pass you again. As quickly as you can.” 

He’s barely finished speaking when the thunder of hooves rises in the distance, approaching rapidly. It makes the ground shake a little, an earthquake and a storm at the same time, and Marshmallow whizzes by white-grey like a raincloud. 

Harry taps the screen of his phone. He’s biting his lip and fidgeting in place, his hair a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it when Louis wasn’t looking. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, though the strange bubble of excitement in his throat makes it quite difficult to speak. “She’s looking really good.” 

Harry doesn’t even have time for a reply before they approach again, and that—that can’t be right. The course is six furlongs, or should be according to Harry’s crafty cousin, but they couldn’t have been gone more than a minute. There’s no way—

Harry taps the screen again. The changing numbers still, and right there for both of them to see is the impossible:

_01:07:15._

__“What,” Louis whispers, looking out into the darkness for their mare, but she’s nowhere to be seen, only a vague echo of thunder in the distance.

“Oh God,” Harry says, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers. “It’s bad, isn’t it? This is so stressful, I—“

“Harry,” Louis stops him, still looking at the numbers in disbelief. “No.” 

“No what? No, Liam’s not going to train her?” he’s waving his other hand around, unsettled. 

Louis reaches out. Wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist. 

“Liam’s not going to leave you alone, now.” 

“Does that mean…?”

“She’s definitely a racehorse, Harry,” Louis smiles, exuberance filling him up like champagne bubbles. “She—he’s not going to say no, I promise.” 

Harry’s smile comes suddenly, transforming his face until he’s the very picture of happiness, teeth on display and little pouches of skin gathered under his eyes. 

“Yeah?” he whispers, twists his hand around, and grabs a hold of Louis’s wrist in return. 

“Yeah,” Louis tells him, fingers still twisted tight in the sleeve of Harry’s jacket. He could scream with how unexpectedly excited he is, for a multitude of reasons, but mostly—they’re holding hands. Almost. Harry’s hand is about halfway up his forearm, but Louis has decided that they’re holding hands, dammit. 

“Louis!” comes a shout from somewhere behind them. Louis has, once again, forgotten about Liam. 

He emerges from the dark a second later, on the ground and leading a panting Marshmallow behind him. 

Harry lets go immediately, like he’s been burned. Louis—well, Louis isn’t going to think about it. 

“How’d we do?” Liam asks, but the grin on his face suggests that he already knows. 

“One seven,” Louis says, grinning, bizarrely proud. 

Liam stops walking. “One _seven_?” 

“I know! It’s not a real stopwatch, but—“ 

“One seven, Louis!” He looks like several Christmases have all come at once, turning to Marshmallow and patting her on the neck.

“Um,” Harry pipes up, “how good is that, exactly?” 

“So good,” Liam tells him before Louis gets the chance. “That’s—God, we can do some really good work here. She could _actually_ get in the big races, Harry.” 

One seven, Louis thinks, turns the numbers around in his head until they’re just shapes. One twelve over six furlongs would be a good time for a trained thoroughbred; but here’s Marshmallow, short and somewhat runty, blowing those horses out of the water before she’s even faced them. 

And these are shite conditions, too – she didn’t have the kind of grip she would have on real turf, or someone who knows how to handle her. Liam’s tall, and not a jockey, not to mention much too heavy. If they find someone lighter, someone who knows what they’re doing—she could fly. 

In a different world, Louis could be that someone. As it is, he’ll have to settle for sticking to Liam like a bad case of the flu and bossing people around from the ground. It’s going to be a good time regardless. 

Harry shouts then, something that sounds vaguely like a “yes”, and tackles Liam in a hug.

So, _so_ good.

*

*

*

Louis is ugly.

“I’m ugly,” he tells Niall, who’s standing by the door, probably waiting for Louis to get out so they can both go home. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Honestly.” 

“I just—look at this,” Louis peers into the mirror and pinches his cheek, very generously covered in facial hair. It’s a full-on beard now, really, left alone for God knows how long because he didn’t have the energy nor the will to shave. 

“That’s your face,” Niall points out. 

“Yes, well. This isn’t what I look like in all those pictures they’ve taken of me for the newspaper.” 

“Because the last one was what – a year ago?” Niall asks, then sighs. He drops his poncey briefcase and crosses the room, bodily pulling Louis away from the mirror. “Get it together, for Christ’s sake. You’re twenty-three and bloody _fit_.”

“Why, _Niall_ ,” Louis flutters his eyelashes, and narrowly ducks Niall’s slap. 

“You know what I’m trying to say,” he grumbles. “Stop being dense and shave, if it’ll make you feel better.” 

“I need a haircut too, though,” says Louis, pulling at the hair that’s curling down the nape of his neck. It doesn’t look bad, but it’s irritating and hard to manage; he wants it gone. 

“There’s a barber shop literally two doors down.” 

“I don’t know if I trust that place. Somebody was screaming in there the other day.” 

Niall leans against the wall and turns off the light. 

“I’m not doing this,” he says, barely a silhouette in the windowless room. “You’re welcome to sleep here if you want, otherwise I suggest you get your sorry arse out before I lock the door.” 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Louis moans, suppressing a laugh all the while, “you’re no fun.” 

“I’ve had a very long day, Louis. Goodbye.” 

And he walks off, taking the stairs down two at a time, a pace that Louis can’t follow. 

Lord knows Niall is a miserable twat, but Louis can’t help liking him just a little – and he knows that the feeling is mutual. There isn’t much to be shy about once you’ve literally lain on top of someone. 

He makes his slow, slow way down into the street. It’s the first time since he’s started physiotherapy that he doesn’t see a car already idling by the curb, waiting for him. Liam is in a _meeting_ , brainstorming training ideas with some old friend of his. He immediately offered to cancel when he realised he wouldn’t be able to pick Louis up, but Louis had sent him off with a thanks and a pat on the back. It really is time to be an adult again, as much as he hates it. 

It’s still light out, just barely. Camden isn’t particularly glorious at this time of day, veiled in that ever-present cloud of smog even as the sun sets in its windows. 

Still, Louis decides to walk for a while, cautiously making his way down the street. He passes a Costa and contemplates a cup of something warm, but the throngs of people queuing inside put him off. He’d rather have his tea in the peace and relative emptiness of his own home, thank you very much. 

It’s getting really bloody cold now, with November well under way. Louis is shivering, shrouded in a mist of his own breath as he walks on the very edge of the kerb, trying to keep out of people’s path. He’s got his face buried in a scarf and his eyes trained down, which is why—

He doesn’t realise he’s about to crash into someone until it’s too late. 

His breath almost gets knocked out of him, his cane clanging to the ground. Louis tries to twist so he falls arms-first and doesn’t take his knee out for good, but—he’s not falling at all. He’s suspended mid-air by a pair of arms. 

“Oops,” a voice says – a voice that Louis very much recognises.

He opens his eyes, and sure enough, there’s Harry, looking like the ghost of Christmas present in his green coat. His cheeks are pink, with the cold or embarrassment, Louis isn’t quite sure, and the redness of his lips is more prominent than ever. 

This would be a perfect time to pull him into a kiss, if Louis were a creep who kisses virtual strangers. 

“Hi,” he breathes instead, somewhat overwhelmed with Harry’s hands splayed on his back. 

“Louis,” Harry says, just as quiet, and lets him stand up. “I am so, _so_ sorry. I wasn’t looking—“

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Louis reassures him, patting his pockets to check nothing’s missing. “It’s alright. We’re both alive, love, no harm done.” 

Harry smiles, small and unbearably cute. He bends down – which gives Louis mental images he’ll have to scrub off his brain later – and picks up the cane, still in one piece and lying in a puddle. 

“It’s dirty,” he says, watching as grey water drips off the end. “I’m so sorry, oh my God.” 

Louis shakes his head. “That’s alright, don’t wo—what are you doing?” 

What Harry’s doing is taking a loose end of his scarf – his fucking Burberry scarf, it the label tells the truth – and using it to wipe the water off. The rainwater. That was in the street. 

Louis reaches out to stop him, but he’s too late. Harry puts the cane, now dry, into his outstretched hands, and smiles like nothing’s wrong. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis whines, eyes stuck on the scarf and the dark stain that now adorns it. “Harry, that’s cashmere.” 

“Alpaca, actually,” Harry says, sheepish. “It’ll come out.” 

“It will _not_ —oh God. You just ruined your scarf.” 

“Louis,” Harry says, hands in his pockets. “I own six acres of land. I can buy another scarf if I want to, yeah? It’s alright.” 

Louis runs a hand through his hair. This is—too much. Harry is too much. 

“Let me repay you, at least. Invite you for coffee or something.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, and reaches out to grip Louis’s shoulder. It’s clearly unconscious, but Louis’s heart flutters a little anyway. “I’m the one who crashed into you, remember? Let me.” 

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry squints, looking at him in a way that he probably thinks is threatening until Louis bursts out laughing. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “Fine. What did you have in mind?” 

Harry scratches his chin. “Coffee? Or tea. You look like a tea man.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis puts his hands on his hips. 

“Nothing! Nothing, you’re just—I can’t quite imagine you drinking coffee, is all,” he says with a half-shrug, the line of his mouth just curving up. 

Louis leans on his cane. “You’re not wrong,” he says, and watches in satisfaction as Harry’s face lights up. “I don’t mind it from time to time, but I’m definitely a tea man.” 

“Can I interest you in a cup of…” he looks around, a strand of hair slipping from behind his ear, “Costa’s finest, then?” He’s already grimacing as he says it, but there aren’t any other coffee shops near where they’re standing, and he looks to be just as cold as Louis is. 

Even so, he wouldn’t have pegged Harry as the Costa type – but then, he also wouldn’t have expected him to ruin his five-hundred-pound scarf for no good reason at all. 

He takes a deep breath, contemplating. His plans for the evening had consisted of an Antiques Roadshow marathon and a bowl of ramen, so it goes without saying that he’d rather be with Harry, but—but. The lights in the shop have come on, and the amount of people inside is mad. He’d get his cane kicked out from under him in ten seconds flat. 

It’s with a heavy heart that he says, “I’m sorry.” 

Harry’s expression falls almost comically fast. He tries to school his face into something politely aloof, but his disappointment is still plain to see. 

Harry had actually wanted to spend time with him. That’s. That’s fine. 

“I understand,” he says, looking like a particularly sad baby cow as he chews his gum. He looks so bloody cosy in his winter clothes, soft and open. “I’m sure you have other plans, it was silly of me to ask.” 

Louis shakes his head, quick to reassure him. “It’s not that,” he says, “I’d love to have a cuppa with you, I really would, but that,” he motions to the Costa behind him, “is just—a bit too much. I’m not that great in crowds. Lose my balance easily,” he lifts his cane, a bit of self-deprecation creeping into his tone. It’s hard to keep it away, sometimes. 

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Oh!” he says, “Of course, I didn’t even—I’m sorry. Um.” 

He’s biting his lip. The streetlights are slowly flickering to life above them, dark orange, and they paint little highlights in his hair. He looks like a fairytale, just then. 

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks, so _earnest_ it almost hurts a little. He looks his age, for once. 

“Well,” Louis says, thinking. “I—I mean, I’m not asking you to do it, but I _do_ need a ride home.” 

He’s totally asking. 

Harry perks up. “I can do that! I can definitely do that. I’m parked just around the corner.” 

“You sure?” Louis eyes him. “Weren’t you on your way to—you know, do something?” 

“Not at all, actually,” he grins. “I was just leaving town. Come on.” 

He doesn’t wait for Louis to respond, just sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking. Louis scrambles after him. 

He really is parked right around the corner, and like a true Londoner, too – he’s managed to fit a massive Range Rover into a space that looks barely big enough for a scooter.

Louis climbs into the passenger seat, sinking into the soft leather. This car is fancier than both Liam’s and his own, and it still smells new. 

“Seatbelt, please,” Harry grins, folding behind the wheel. Louis obeys, but keeps an eye on Harry’s hands as they slide the key into the ignition, then languidly search for the right radio station. Harry’s wearing rings, chunky and shiny, gorgeously complementing his long fingers. 

Louis is fine. He’s started sweating a bit, but he’s _fine_. 

“Where am I going, then?” Harry asks, once something vaguely indie is coming out of the speakers.

“Right,” Louis says, and takes his eyes off him. “Um, Kensington. Queen’s Gardens.” 

Harry whistles. “Fancy.” 

Louis squeaks, outraged. “ _You_ have no right to call me fancy. You could house the entire royal family in that palace of yours.” 

“They did come for a visit once,” Harry says, and manages to pull out into the street. His grip on the wheel is firm enough to pull at the skin of his knuckles, accentuate the bones in the backs of his hands, and—right. No staring. 

“The royals,” he says, dry. “The royals just popped in for a scone and a cuppa.” 

Harry giggles. “ _No_. It was when my mum and stepdad still lived in the house. There was some sort of fancy dinner, and William and Harry both showed up. I hadn’t realised they were invited, of course, so I kind of…” he trails off.

“You what?” 

“I hid,” Harry sighs, but his easy grin stays firmly in place. “I stayed in the back garden all night, in the dark, in my bespoke Gieves & Hawkes.” 

Louis bursts into laughter. “You did _not_ ,” he gasps. “Why in the world would you do that?” 

They whiz through an intersection, barely catching the tail end of an orange light. Harry’s blushing, matching bright red spots in the apples of his cheeks. “I was seventeen,” he says, defensive. “Things are—difficult at that age.” 

Louis bites the back of his hand to stop himself from laughing, but it doesn’t accomplish much. “Difficult how?” 

Harry scrunches his nose, breathing in. “Just. Difficult. Lots of accidental erections.” 

Louis _howls_. He’ll be embarrassed about it later. “Harry,” he wheezes, “Harry, did you—“

“Have a huge, awkward crush on Prince Harry? Yes,” he sounds nonchalant, but his blush is getting darker, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

Louis is crying. There are actual tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. This isn’t—this is. He doesn’t know what this is. 

He tries to stop the sounds that want to make their way out of his throat, muffling them with his sleeve, but he’s caught in a laughing fit and it seems there’s no getting out. He’s giggling wildly when he looks over to Harry – who’s laughing too, a dry little chuckle, but there’s something else on his face, a wobble in the corner of his mouth. 

It’s only then that their conversation catches up with Louis, and the laughter dies. 

“I’m sorry,” he says testily, his voice a little hoarse. “I, um. Shouldn’t have laughed.” 

“No, God, that’s not—it _is_ funny. At least it is now, though I was mortified way back when.” 

Louis imagines a gangly, curly seventeen-year-old Harry; imagines him with his huge hands and pretty eyes, sitting in the back garden of his estate, all alone and nursing a boner while some of the most powerful people in the country sit inside. The thought alone makes him feel so very, terribly fond. 

“I can’t imagine,” he says, trying his best to be kind. “Also, you do know I’m gay as a maypole, right?” 

It’s Harry’s turn to choke on a laugh, bringing one of his hands to his face as he navigates the traffic. He immediately seems more relaxed, though, and that all-too-familiar urge to hug him comes back again. He’d really been worried that Louis would—ha. As if. 

“That’s good to know,” Harry says, giggly. “Same here. As gay as the day is long.” 

That—is a Friends reference. Harry works Friends references into casual conversation. 

Louis must marry him immediately. 

“I’m sorry for laughing,” he says again, twisting in his seat until his whole body is turned towards Harry. “I just—I didn’t realise I could come across as straight. To anyone. Ever.” 

“I don’t think I thought you were,” Harry shrugs. “But it’s always a bit nerve-wracking, isn’t it?” 

“You’re right about that,” Louis smiles. “I wish I had a hilarious story I could tell people. Might make it easier.” 

“It’s not hilarious!” Harry protests, but he can’t even keep a straight face as he says it. “I was _so_ embarrassed. Mum tore me a new one for disappearing on her, and I couldn’t even tell her why.” 

Louis starts laughing again, warm inside and out, pressing his face into the backrest. “Did you get to meet him, at least?” 

“The Prince?” 

“Yep.” 

“Not really, no. It took me about fifteen seconds to get hard just looking at him when he came in, so I just—bolted.”

Louis’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. God, this feels good. 

“I got to meet him a little while ago, though. He wasn’t all that my teenage wet dreams made him out to be.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis hisses. “They can probably hear you right now.” 

“Who?” Harry laughs. 

“I don’t know, the police. Or Scotland Yard. The MI5. You can’t just say that you wouldn’t shag the prince.” 

“I never said I wouldn’t,” Harry grins, a cheeky tilt to his mouth. “Just that he’s not my type anymore.” 

Louis puts his head in his hands. “We’re getting arrested.” 

“I’m sure the prince has heard worse, Louis. We’ll be fine.” 

When Louis raises his head, they’ve stopped at a light, and Harry is looking right at him. There’s something in his eyes – something lovely and soft and earnest. 

_Gorgeous_ , Louis thinks for the millionth time that day.

They’re almost home already, though it can’t have been more than twenty minutes. It’s late enough that the traffic has started to dissipate, and it only takes another ten before they’re in Kensington, its many pristine white walls a muddled grey in the dusk. Harry lets Louis program his house number into the sat nav.

“There we are, then,” he says, miraculously finding an empty spot. He parallel parks like it’s nothing, and it’s that of all things that manages to turn Louis on, after suppressing it for over an hour. 

Louis likes boys, and he likes cars, and he likes boys in cars. Also, parking is an attractive skill, and he hasn’t had sex in over a year. Sue him. 

But, of course, all of that is completely irrelevant. Harry is smiling at him from behind the wheel, easy and friendly, and—they’re going to be co-workers, in a way. Even if Harry showed any sign of being attracted to Louis – which he hasn’t, and he never will, because he’s clearly _not_ – getting it on would probably be a bad idea. 

“There we are,” Louis repeats, almost in a whisper. The street is quiet, and so is the car. “Um. Thank you for this. I’d have probably had to get a cab, and those aren’t nearly as comfortable as this thing.” He pats the dashboard, a little too forceful. 

Harry frowns. “How do you usually get home?” 

He’s turned the car off, and unbuckled his seatbelt so he could face Louis. Louis doesn’t let himself get his hopes up. 

He waves a hand to indicate that it doesn’t matter, but answers anyway: “Liam drives me. But he’s meeting someone about Marshmallow tonight, and he’s probably not going to have time from now on anyway, so I should practise getting home on my own.” He looks at Harry. Cocks his head. “Except today I ran into you, so. Maybe next time.” 

Harry looks deep in thought. The air around them is cooling slowly, creeping under Louis’s coat until he has to wrap his scarf around his hands to keep them warm. He’d much rather put his hands on Harry, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“I can do it,” Harry says finally, quiet. “I can drive you.” 

He—doesn’t look very enthusiastic about the idea. There are several emotions warring on his face, too complex for Louis to pinpoint. 

He prepares himself to turn down the offer graciously, to thank Harry for being so kind. What comes out instead is: “That would be wonderful.”

Harry smiles, somewhat uncertain. “Good. You don’t have to ask me if I’m sure, yes I am, just—here.” He hands out his phone, an expectant look on his face, and it takes Louis a second to realise he’s asking for a number. 

He taps in the digits, slow and thorough lest he make a mistake and lose contact with Harry forever, or something equally dramatic. He desperately tries to shut up his brain, which is currently doing the Mexican wave and shouting something about this being the beginning of a romantic comedy; this isn’t that kind of situation. Still, a lone little butterfly finds its way into Louis’s stomach, flitting about in there until the phone is safely out of his hands. 

“Thanks,” Harry smiles.

“Thank _you_ ,” Louis replies. “Are you—are you sure, though? It’s a long way to come just for. Uh. Me.” 

“I told you not to ask,” Harry says, squinting angrily, but obviously joking. He puts his hand on Louis’s shoulder, then squeezes. Oh God. “I’m definitely sure. And I don’t mind coming, honestly. This was really nice. I like spending time with you.” 

The butterfly multiplies, until it’s a whole horde of what feels like angry bees, making Louis’s stomach quiver, his breath come in a little short.

His tongue seems to have atrophied, just lying flat in his mouth as Louis desperately searches for something to say, _anything_. This hasn’t happened to him since he was in school; he prides himself in being quick on his feet, for God’s sake. 

“And I have a flat in the city,” Harry continues, presumably taking pity on Louis when he sees him grappling with the concept of speech. “So it’s not—I won’t be going out of my way that much. Don’t worry.” 

Louis nods. Finally, some air makes it into his lungs. “Th—thank you. I really appreciate it, you have no idea how much.” 

Harry grins, sweet, so sweet. Louis wants to poke one of his dimples, to cup his cheek in his hand and feel the stubble there, feel how soft his skin is. 

He bites the bullet. “Would you like to come up for a cuppa?” 

Harry—recoils. There is no other word for it, though he does pretty well at hiding it. 

It doesn’t hurt, not really, or at least that’s what Louis tries to believe. Harry’s just said that he enjoys spending time with him. Louis is just being too forward – yes, that must be it. 

Harry clears his throat, the air suddenly stiff around them. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the steering wheel, “I can’t. I, uh—I’ve got to go home. Horses,” he finishes unconvincingly, waving his hands about. 

Louis tries to smile. He thinks he does a pretty good job, too. “That’s alright,” he says, avoiding Harry’s eyes and instead staring in the rearview mirror. “That’s—yeah. Thank you for this. And for the offer,” he adds. He reaches out, just for a fraction of a second, the tips of his fingers barely brushing Hary’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later?” 

Harry’s face softens a little, some of the tense lines in his forehead smoothing out. “Later,” he says quietly.

Louis gets out of the car, closes the door behind him, and doesn’t look back. 

It takes him longer than usual to get up the stairs, the echo of his cane and his shuffling shoes seeming a bit too loud. He feels itchy all over, a little like he wants to shed his own skin. 

He puts the kettle on once he’s home, and stares out of the window. He wants to get his phone out and text Liam, ask him for advice, but soon enough he realises that he can’t, because one, outing people to other people without their consent is a shitty thing to do, and two, Liam is probably still in his meeting. Not to mention absolutely horrid at giving any kind of relationship advice. 

He settles for stretching himself out on the sofa and staring into the ceiling, like the answers might be hanging there like some bizarre butterfly pods. 

So the situation is this: 

Harry is gay. Louis is also gay. Louis is single, and Harry might be, too. Statistically, it isn’t completely impossible that the two of them will touch mouths someday, and Louis wants it. 

That’s fine.

*

“Why are we watching this again?”

Liam shrugs. He doesn’t look entirely awake. “It’s your telly.” 

That is true, Louis thinks, but he doesn’t quite have it in him to reach for the remote. 

It’s a Monday, and raining. They’ve just come back from Harry’s, where the new track is going along a bit slower than expected, and they’re both exhausted – Liam from being on a horse for the better part of a day, and Louis from standing around and wishing it was him up there instead. And from sliding around in the mud. 

“Do we want food?” he asks, poking Liam with his toe. “I got a leaflet in the mail the other day. Curries for four quid.” 

“You’re rich,” Liam points out. “And I don’t want a curry. I want pizza.” 

“We _always_ have pizza. Paul hates the delivery men, he always glares when I walk past him these days.” 

Louis might be projecting a little – his doorman is quite possibly the nicest man that ever lived. Still, a little bit of dramatic exaggeration is necessary if he wants to change Liam’s mind. 

“Tell you what,” he says, rolling over to his stomach with no small amount of trouble. “Fish and chips.” 

Liam opens one eye. “From the good place?” 

“And extra cheese,” Louis nods, only grimacing a little. He’s a salt and vinegar man, himself. 

Liam lets out what’s possibly the longest sigh in history. “ _Fine_ ,” he says. “But you’ll owe me.” 

“I won’t owe you shit,” says Louis, getting to his feet. “I’m paying, so you don’t get to complain.” 

He makes his way to the kitchen, where the takeout menus are. A few of their favourites are tacked to the fridge, a little sun-bleached, but Louis barely needs them anyway. He’s saved most of the numbers a long time ago.

Which might not be a thing to brag about at twenty-three and several years into a high-paying career. 

“ _Huge_ tits, though,” Trinny’s voice carries in from the living room while he’s on hold. “Let’s try a different blouse.” 

Louis hates _What Not to Wear_ , genuinely and passionately. His mum used to have it on all the time, way back when, and he had always found it incredibly disturbing. He knows now that _secretly_ filming someone who just happens to be in need of a makeover is not a thing that happens, that there were contracts signed beforehand and the people who were on knew what they were getting into, but—no. 

“That’s a very frumpy look you’re sporting,” says Susannah. Louis leans into the doorway so he can see the screen, and silently judges her dress. 

By the time he’s ordered, they’ve moved on to ransacking the poor woman’s wardrobe. Liam is fast asleep on the sofa, using his hands as a pillow. 

“I feel like we’re in Sylvester Stalone’s mother’s wardrobe,” Trinny says, picking a snakeskin blazer off the rack. “Just _look_ at this.” 

Louis wants to change the channel. Really, he does. 

He doesn’t.

He _does_ get itchier by the second, inexplicably nervous now that he’s more or less alone. Right there, in his own bloody living room, he feels—self-conscious. Trinny says something about physical beauty, and he’s reminded of the mirrors in Niall’s gym, how they never quite show him what he’d like to see. 

He’s got an article framed on the wall, a gift from Liam to celebrate his first big win at Cheltenham. It’s hung all the way by the window, because he doesn’t like to look at it, but he knows it word for word. There’s a picture of him, too, grinning into the camera and cradling his trophy, Tic Tac’s big head hooked over his shoulder. He looks young in it, and had felt it too, barely twenty-one with the attention of the racing world suddenly on him.

He’d been so, so happy that day. 

It’s a split-second decision, somehow crazier than anything Louis has done in the past year or so. He leaves Liam with Trinny and Susannah and their early 2000’s haircuts, and locks himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t even have razors anymore, but Liam keeps a pack of spares in the cupboard underneath the sink. They’re not that difficult to find, along with a somewhat disgusting tube of shaving gel. 

He should probably Google how to do this instead of just hacking at his face. He knows, though, that if he opens the door again, he’s going to chicken out. The beard is itchy and annoying at the best of times, but he’s had it for months, from the moment they put metal rods in his leg and he decided that giving up would be the best course of action. 

“Get it together,” he says, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s got a pair of scissors aimed at his own face, and his hand is shaking visibly. “Get it together,” he repeats. He takes a breath, then two, then three; then he cuts. 

It’s only the doorbell that lures him out, but Liam’s already at the door, sleepily digging through Louis’s wallet and paying the delivery person. 

“Lou?” he calls, clearly confused, arms wrapped around their food. 

Louis clears his throat. He considers going back to the bathroom before Liam has time to turn around, just—slamming the door and not coming out until he’s sure he’s alone. 

But that would be childish, and Louis, as much as it pains him to admit it, is not a child. 

He stands his ground, and can pinpoint the exact moment Liam takes him in, because his mouth falls open. 

“You’ll catch a fly,” Louis quips, coming closer and taking the hot containers out of Liam’s arms. The scent of fried batter and chips is already permeating the flat. He knows he’ll be trying his hardest to get rid of it later, but for right now, it’s heaven. 

Also, Liam is staring. 

“You—“ he starts, but doesn’t finish, just rubs a hand over his own stubble. “Am I dreaming?” 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Louis rolls his eyes, and forces a fork into Liam’s hand. “Come eat.” 

And they do, in silence that’s only interrupted by Trinny and Susannah judging someone’s life choices. It’s a new episode now, but it makes Louis just as fidgety. 

“You know,” Liam starts, swinging his last chip in front of his eyes, which, gross. “I’ve almost forgotten what you look like under there.” 

Miraculously, it’s all Louis needs to shed the uncomfortable itching. He chortles an ugly, hearty laugh, and pelts a bit of batter at Liam’s forehead. 

“You’re a wanker,” he declares, grinning through it. “Thanks, though.” 

He doesn’t have to specify, doesn’t have to say _for giving me space, for lifting the mood, for sticking by me through all this_. Going by Liam’s smile, he already knows. 

“I’m serious,” he says, hands on his stomach, all but melting into Louis’s sofa. “It’s been—how long has it been? Jesus.” 

“A while,” Louis nods, running a testy finger down his cheek. The skin there is tender, oversensitive. He’s got a bit of grease in the corner of his mouth that he wipes away, and realises, with sudden joy, that he gets to _do_ that now. No more furiously scrubbing the beard with soap. 

“You look good,” Liam tells him, smiling. “Great, actually.” 

“Would you shag me?” 

Liam sighs. “I’m never giving you another compliment. And no, I wouldn’t shag you.” 

This is good. Comfortable. This is a conversation they’ve had a thousand times. 

“I’m hurt,” Louis sniffles, laying a hand over his heart. “You _wound_ me, Payno. I’m great in bed, you don’t know what you’re missing.” 

“Neither does anyone else,” Liam says, dry. 

Louis cackles. He puts the container down, gets out of the armchair and onto the sofa, right under Liam’s outstretched arm. “It hasn’t been that long.” 

“Has so. I bet the last time was when I caught you with that jockey from Godolphin.” 

Louis shrieks, outraged. “That wasn’t—those were handjobs, Liam. We were working off the adrenaline.” 

“There’s an excuse I haven’t heard before,” Liam says, and his body shakes with silent laughter. He pokes Louis in the shoulder, then pulls him in, until they’re half-sitting slumped into each other. “Seriously, though. That’s like—more than a year.”

He says that with all the horror of a man in a steady relationship, and the look on his face makes Louis giggle. 

“I’m fine, don’t you worry,” he says, and pats Liam on the chest. “I don’t even miss it.” That’s a lie. That is a _huge_ fucking lie. All Louis has to do is be in Harry’s vicinity, and his body is more than eager to remind him just how long it’s been. 

“Mhm,” Liam hums, clearly seeing right through him. “Whatever you say. Maybe we should get you on one of them dating apps.” 

“Whoa, who said anything about dating?” 

Liam gives him the absolute driest look he’s ever managed to conjure up. “You _love_ dating, Louis. You love being in relationships.” 

“I’ve never even—you’ve not seen me in a relationship!” 

Liam shakes his head. “No, but that stable lad at Simon’s—what was his name?” 

“Alex,” Louis supplies immediately, then realises he’s been caught. 

“That’s it,” Liam grins, entirely too satisfied with himself. “Alex. You shagged once, and then you spent _weeks_ pouting at him. You invited him out to dinner. You had a bouquet or roses delivered to his flat, for God’s sake.” 

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Louis protests, but he wraps his arms around himself at the memory. He’d been brand new at Simon’s, and Alex was a bloody dream – tan, tall, brown-eyed. Louis had been convinced he found his soulmate just days after leaving Yorkshire for the first time.

Needless to say, Alex didn’t feel the same way.

And Liam—Liam has a point. There’s just something about having a person, someone who doesn’t mind being part of a _we_. Louis has always looked for that, ever since he was sixteen and tentatively at home in being gay. 

“Alex was a prick,” he points out. 

“That he was,” Liam nods. “You deserve someone better.” 

Louis feels unexpectedly touched. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and puts his head down on Liam’s shoulder. 

“Anytime,” says Liam, ruffling his hair. 

Louis stares at the telly, mostly looking through it, but the very end of the episode catches his attention. Trinny and Susannah have transformed an elderly lady – Vera, the screen says – into a veritable goddess. Susannah’s words, not his. 

“She looks nice,” Liam says, as she twirls in her sparkling fuchsia shawl. “Her clothes look a bit like Harry’s.”

Louis doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher Liam’s thought process there. He settles for whacking him – gently – on the head. 

The episode ends, and finally, blessedly, some version of the evening news comes on. 

“Liam?” Louis asks.

“Hm?” 

“Do I need a makeover?” 

Liam looks at him as if he’s grown an extra head. “You—what?” 

“A makeover,” Louis repeats, waving his hand impatiently. He’s got to get this out before embarrassment catches up with him. “Since I already shaved and all. New clothes to start a new chapter of my life, or whatever.” 

Liam keeps blinking. Louis can almost see the wheels turning in his brain. 

“I mean…” Louis points at himself – joggers that haven’t been washed in well over two weeks, and a white t-shirt adorned with several ketchup stains. 

“A new chapter of your life,” Liam repeats. 

Louis’s cheeks burn, but he doesn’t take it back. This is _Liam_ , for God’s sake, probably the only person on planet Earth Louis would actually talk to about this. 

It’s what people always say to do after breakups, isn’t it? Reinvent yourself. Get a new haircut, or whatever. Louis wants to go to the barber’s, and buy clothes that make him look at least vaguely attractive. He wants to break up with this bloody sham of a life he’s been living. 

He’s not exactly ready, but—he _wants to_.

“Exactly,” he nods. “Maybe I should—you know. Get some shirts with real collars. I look good in those.” 

“You look good in everything,” Liam says, looking alarmed. “You’re—are you trying to be someone you’re not? Because I’m going to have to stop you, if that’s the case.” 

Louis smiles. “I’m _trying_ to reinvent myself. It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting rid of that thing,” he points to his cane, propped up unassumingly in the corner of the room, “anytime soon, so. I guess there’s no point in waiting for it to happen. I should get it together now.” 

This all sounds very nice in theory, but inside, Louis’s brain is screaming. There’s months of heartbreak, of pain, that he hasn’t dealt with, and he knows he’ll need to, but—maybe if he moves on to something new, if he keeps running, the darkness will never catch up. 

“You already have nice clothes, though,” Liam frowns. “Like, for official things.” 

“What about my regular clothes?”

“Well,” Liam bites his lip. “Right now, you do look kind of—frumpy.” 

Louis’s mouth falls open. _“Frumpy_?” 

“You asked!” Liam defends himself, scooting to the other end of the sofa. “And it’s just these clothes, I swear. Your other ones are nice, the—the jumpers and stuff.”

Louis squints. Liam throws an arm over his chest, anticipating and attack and protecting his nipples. “I told you you’d look good in anything. Almost anything, I guess. ” 

Louis keeps squinting. 

“Harry thinks so too,” Liam says cautiously, climbing over to the armchair and out of Louis’s reach. 

“What’s Harry got to do with this?” Louis asks. 

Liam raises an eyebrow, then turns back to the telly. The wind has tipped over a lorry somewhere near Newcastle, apparently, and he watches the footage like it’s more important than Louis’s crisis. 

“Liam,” he snaps his fingers. “Makeover. Yay or nay?” 

“Nay,” says Liam, sighing. “Just—maybe you should do laundry. It’s been a while.” 

He’s right. Louis _hates_ when Liam is right. 

As revenge, he strips right there in the living room, kicking his clothes into a pile then picking them up. Liam wails from behind him, and Louis can hear his despaired “why?” all the way into the kitchen. 

Operation Make Louis Presentable Again is a go – as soon as he figures out where his laundry gel has gone.

*

Liam signs a contract a couple of days later, under the watchful (creepy) eye of Harry’s lawyer. Louis, naturally, requests to tag along. While his best friend is shut away in an office somewhere, he takes the opportunity as a prime learning experience, and decides to explore Harry’s gigantic house.

It’s a bit drabber than Louis had thought it would be – proper posh, of course, but not in the pink-sofa-lining-and-gold-rimmed-plates-painted-with-kittens way he’d expect from Harry. The furniture is generic – vaguely Victorian, maybe – and the walls are adorned with neat rows of paintings. There are probably ones just like them hanging in two dozen other mansions across the country: important-looking people with tall hair, pale and unsmiling, fox hunting complete with barking hounds and the gentry in their red jackets, autumn-toned landscapes and palaces and still lifes of flowers. In one word – boring, even though the man of the house is anything but. 

The outside, while plain, is a little more exciting. Louis walks down the front steps just in time to see the herd cantering in, taking shape on the horizon one by one. They kind of look like a trail mix, Louis thinks, each one of them different, but they seem to get along just fine. 

He’s never really been around pastured horses. It’s amazing to see them so free, like on the posters he used to have as a boy. They’re not in a hurry, not carrying a rider that’s spurring them on – they’re just running for the hell of it. 

More than anything, Louis wants to join them; to throw away his cane and run out into the pasture, arms spread wide open. He feels childish with it, with how much he wants to break every rule that his life has bestowed upon him. It’s an everyday thing, really. It happens when he’s walking down the street and sees a group of kids kicking a football around, and when he’s picking up a new bottle of painkillers at the pharmacy. The want is always there, the desire to just put all of this behind him. He’s always looking for ways to be a little less heartbroken. 

It’s gotten quite gloomy inside his head, all of a sudden, and he’s grateful for the distraction when some of the horses make it down the hill to where he’s standing. There’s no fence to separate the pasture from the house – “I like having them close,” Harry had said – and one of the younger ones just trots all the way to the steps, looking up at Louis with its curious eyes. 

“Hello,” he smiles, and carefully holds out a hand. “What’s your name, then?” 

Surprisingly enough, the filly doesn’t say. She’s really quite gorgeous, though, a shiny, curious little bay, so Louis figures it’s something posh. 

She steps closer, and nuzzles into his palm. Louis pets her happily, forgetting about his unofficial mission of exploring every inch of Harry’s gigantic property. 

Speak of the devil, though – it’s barely a minute before Harry appears in the doorway, chewing gum with his hands somehow stuffed into the pockets of his skin-tight jeans. He’s dressed up just a little, traded his wellies in for shiny boots and put on a silky-looking shirt that’s barely buttoned. He’s got a hint of a smile on his face as he watches them, and he looks like an absolute arsehole. It’s—strange.

Of course Harry, being Harry, ruins the illusion in under a second. He hops down the steps like a child, curls bouncing, headed straight for the horse. 

“I see you’ve met Tashie,” he says, reaching forward and scratching her cheek. Their hands are somewhat dangerously close. 

“I have indeed,” Louis replies. “She’s very friendly.” 

Harry takes a breath to say something. Louis waits a beat, then two, but nothing happens. When he raises his head, he’s met with wide green eyes. Harry’s mouth is half open, frozen around a word. 

“Um,” Louis says. “Harry?” 

Harry blinks, slow and very, very thorough. “You,” he starts, then has to clear his throat and try again. “You look different.” 

“Oh,” Louis says, and realises that this is, indeed, the first time he’s seen Harry today. He brings a hand up to rub across his cheek, where new hair is already starting to poke through his skin. He’d been red as a tomato that morning, but it’s gone down now. The universe is on his side, just this once. “I shaved.” 

Harry mirrors his movement, petting the skin above his upper lip, where his adorable stubble is actually becoming visible. Louis realises, with a start, that this has to be Harry’s first proper facial hair. He’s so, _so_ young. Bloody hell.

There’s a second of silence. Tashie nudges Louis’s hand, then gets bored when he doesn’t do anything and stomps off. 

“I can see that,” Harry mumbles finally, taking a step back for no apparent reason. His eyes are still a little too wide, plain to see in the yellow light of the evening. “It’s, um. Nice,” he says. “Suits you.” 

Louis’s heart does a tap dance rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit inside his chest. 

“Not—not that the beard didn’t,” Harry rushes to reassure him, arms outstretched a little, like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. “’S just different.” 

“Tell me about it,” Louis grins, trying his best to put him at ease. “It’s been ages since I last shaved. My face feels cold all the time.” 

Harry cracks a wide, sweet smile, genuine in the way it transforms his face. “You should get a scarf,” he says, and looks critically at Louis’s coat with lapels gaping wide open.

“You’re one to talk,” Louis returns, giving Harry’s bared chest a pointed look – just one. If he lingered any longer, he wouldn’t really trust himself to look away ever again. “You’re going to catch pneumonia like this, you know.” 

“It’s not that cold.” 

“It’s _November_.”

Harry shrugs, thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. It makes his shirt gape wider. Louis coughs. Looks out at the pasture, where the herd has started moving again. 

“It’s sunny,” Harry says, and steps closer. “I’m never cold when the sun is out.” 

Louis tilts his head back, eyes at the sky, where the toothy sun is running towards the horizon. There’s no hint of it in the air, no warmth whatsoever. 

“You’re full of shit,” he says, grinning, and when he looks at Harry, he’s grinning right back.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he says: “I’m bloody freezing.” 

Louis sighs happily. He unbuttons his coat; doesn’t really give it much thought when he shrugs out of it and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders, one quick move. 

When he steps back, he realises two things at once:

One, they’re standing right in front a big, warm house. 

Two, Harry is staring at him, _again_. He’s completely motionless, eyes stuck to Louis’s face. For a second, Louis thinks he’s going to let the coat slide off and into the muddy grass. 

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, staring at his trainers. 

“Sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better. “It’s just—I’m a big brother. I’m used to doing that.” 

Slowly, carefully, Harry’s fingers curl around the wool. 

“A big brother?” he asks, wearing something that’s not quite a smile. His cheeks are pink.

“Yep,” Louis replies, feeling warmer at the very thought of his family. “Lots of siblings.” 

“How many exactly?” asks Harry, and starts walking towards the sunset, away from the house. Louis follows him without a question, cane squelching in the mud. 

“Guess,” he says, watching Harry’s back. Louis’s coat is just a bit too small for him to wear, but he’s wrapped it around himself, empty sleeves billowing. 

“That’s not fair,” Harry says, and he might be pouting. Still, he takes the bait. “Um. Three?” 

Louis laughs. “More.” 

“ _Four_?” 

“More,” Louis says when he finally catches up. He doesn’t think Harry’s headed anywhere in particular, just wandering on those lovely legs of his, but he certainly doesn’t mind. 

“You can’t—five?” Harry is incredulous, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. 

“Eh,” Louis grimaces, gesturing to say not quite. “Almost there.” 

“Six?” Harry almost shouts. “You have six siblings?” 

“Yep,” Louis nods, beaming. “Five sisters and a brother. They’re a handful, but—they’re just the best. I love them to death.”

Harry smiles, small, almost private. “I can tell.” He kicks a pebble, staining the toe of his immaculate boot. “That must be so nice. Having that many people around, I mean.” 

“No siblings for you, then?” 

Harry shakes his head. Giggles a little. “No, no, I’ve got a sister. I had her here, and mum and dad and then my stepdad, but it was just…” he trails off, then shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

“Oh, come on,” Louis nudges him, gentle but also dying of curiosity. He wants to see more of this, right here, the soft air of vulnerability that’s settled around this boy like mist over water. 

Harry shrugs. Louis’s coat almost slips off his shoulder, but he catches it in time. “The house is really big,” he says simply. “Felt a bit lonely sometimes.” 

There’s seventeen-year-old Harry again, alive in Louis’s imagination, but he’s moved from the garden to one of the uncomfortable sofas that litter the house. He’s alone, poor thing, looking down at his shoes. 

Louis realises, all over again, that this Harry, Harry at twenty-something, lives all alone. He has a lady who cleans and cooks but only comes in a couple of times a week, and the horse people Louis has seen around from time to time, but they seem to keep to themselves.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and hopes it comes across as sincere as he wants it to be. 

“That’s alright,” says Harry, a shrewd little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. “I had friends. Not very many, mind you, because it’s difficult to meet nice people in a private boarding school, but I got by.” 

“You went to boarding school.” 

Harry shoots him a perplexed look. “Louis,” he says, deliberately slow, “my parents are very rich. It’s a status thing.” 

It would probably sound like bragging from anybody else, but Harry just—says it. Like he’s talking about the weather. 

Louis tries to gasp dramatically, but he doesn’t quite pull it off, dissolving into giggles instead. “Did you—did you go to _Eton_?” 

“No,” Harry answers. Louis can’t be sure, but he thinks he might be blushing. “Charterhouse. And it wasn’t _that_ posh.”

He’s definitely pouting now, bottom lip stuck out dramatically. Louis wants to kiss every inch of his face. 

Which. Creepy. 

They come to the fence, both sinking into the soft ground, and stand there watching as the sun disappears over the horses’ backs. Harry is squinting into the distance, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hip popped and hands fisted into the lapels of Louis’s coat. His hair catches the light just so, sitting on top of his head like a halo, tumbling down over his shoulders as shiny as his silky shirt. The very silhouette of him is soft, bathed in warm colours. He’s just—so, so lovely. 

Louis can’t believe he went to boarding school. He’s met plenty of rich kids over the course of his career, and none of them were this nice, this kind, this gorgeous. Not a single one. 

“You know I don’t believe you that,” he says, barely audible, loathe to interrupt the moment Harry seems to be having. “Even your accent is posh.” 

“You’re right,” Harry grins. “It _was_ posh. I had three different types of blazers for different occasions, and they all had to be washed at least once a week.” 

Louis blinks. “You’re having me on. They can’t make you wash your clothes when you’re already paying them forty grand a year.” 

Harry barks, a wild outburst of a laugh. It wasn’t even that funny, but—Louis will take it. 

He thinks he hears Liam somewhere behind them, talking in that mushy tone of voice he reserves exclusively for Sophia. He’s probably all sorted now, just waiting for Louis to reappear so they can go home. 

Louis doesn’t want to, though. He wants to hide in the trees somewhere until Liam gives up and leaves without him. Wants to see what the house looks like at night, fancy chandeliers lighting up the windows. 

Wants to see what Harry looks like in the morning, but that’s beside the point. 

“I think Liam’s done now,” he sighs, defeated. He distinctly remembers himself thinking about how bad an idea this was, following Harry around and hanging onto every word that comes out of his mouth.

The heart – no, not the heart, what the _fuck_. The—the pleasure centre of Louis’s brain wants what it wants, but he’s an adult man who can make adult decisions. 

Besides, it’s not like he’s pining. Harry is objectively very, very fit, and Louis is partial to putting his mouth on him, but he can’t have him, and that’s _fine_. Harry’s company is delightful either way. 

“I think you’re right,” Harry nods, looking over his shoulder. “I hope Herb didn’t give him a hard time.” 

“He’s a scary little man.” 

Harry snorts. “That he is. He’s a bit—overprotective. Of my family’s money, I mean. Keeps telling me that I spend too much.” 

“And he does all that out of the goodness of his heart?” Louis raises an eyebrow, thinking of the lawyer’s suit – ill-fitting, but obviously expensive. 

“Yep,” Harry nods. “That, and six hundred quid an hour.” 

“ _Jesus_.” 

“I know. He seems to forget about his fees whenever he gives me a lecture on _irresponsible spending_.” 

He says that last bit with an accent, some sort of Irish-Scottish garble that makes Louis laugh. It does not, by any means, sound like Herb the lawyer, but it does coax Harry’s dimples out.

“He acts like I don’t have my own job,” he continues, shaking his head. “ _Oh, if Mrs Cox was here, she would not allow this. Imagine what Mr Twist would say. You’re almost twenty-two, Mr Styles, this has got to stop.”_

Louis perks up. “So what is it that you do, exactly?” 

It’s a question that’s been worming through his brain for a while, occupying much more of his time than is acceptable. Harry seems to be home a lot, and he’s declared – many times – that the horses are just pets. He needn’t have a job, really, considering how much money his family seems to have, but Louis didn’t peg him for a freeloader. 

Harry raises an eyebrow, challenge clear on his face. “Guess.” 

Louis tries, but he has no luck. He guesses every single thing that pops into his head, from baker to spy to trapeze artist, but Harry keeps shaking his head and looking progressively more amused. 

“This isn’t fair,” Louis complains, once he’s given up and they’re on their way back to the house, the sky dimming above their heads. “You could be _anything_. There are millions of professions in the world.” 

Harry is smiling, clearly happy with himself. “You’ll figure it out,” he says. He looks at Louis, a long, drawn-out thing that seems to last for minutes, and then—winks. 

It takes Louis a few seconds to get his bearings, and by the time he’s back on track, Harry’s already jogged ahead to talk to Liam. He’s cheerful as ever, waving his arms, Louis’s coat now folded over his arm and ready to be handed back to its owner. And Louis just…stands. Stands, stares, and wishes desperately that there was some kind of Harry Styles Google he could consult.

 _He winked at me_ , he’d type into the search bar. _I’m majorly overthinking it, but just in case: what does winking mean?_ And _what’s his job?_ , and _I think he’s my new favourite person_ , and _help_.

Help.

*

“Watch now,” Liam shouts.

“I’m watching,” Louis replies, for the twentieth time that day. 

Their voices echo in the riding hall, the walls sending Louis’s own words back to him. It’s starting to give him a headache, which only contributes to his general misery. 

He’s bloody freezing, is the thing, yet somehow sweating at the same time, wearing a vest and a t-shirt and two hoodies _and_ a coat, not to mention a scarf, a hat, and two pairs of gloves. It is also eight in the morning. He’d had to get up at _five_. 

Liam is a tyrant, and Louis is very much regretting ever agreeing to be his _assistant trainer_. 

“It’s just until we find an exercise rider,” Liam had promised, well over two weeks ago. “I’ve phoned some contacts already. There’s bound to be someone around who’s looking for work.” 

But, as it turns out, there isn’t. Training is in full swing for the season, and it seems that every rider in the country has found a place in somebody's stable. Every rider that Liam would be willing to hire, anyway. He’s grown very protective of Marshmallow, convinced that she’s going to be the next breakout star, and he’d rather ride her himself than hand her over to someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. 

Which brings them here, with Louis watching on the sidelines and making notes on a poncey clipboard, shivering as he does. A good six hours a day, five days a week. 

It’s hell. 

“Ready?” asks Liam, just off a diagonal and coming closer down the short side. 

“Born ready, Payno.” 

Liam takes Marshmallow around in a trot, warming her back up, and Louis pauses the self-pity for a moment to watch them. He feels a little bubble of pride in his chest, just watching the way she takes Liam’s cues and responds. She was an excellent horse to begin with, but she’s finally starting to get used to the two of them, and to being taken off the pasture every day to work. She’s filled out a bit, thanks to Harry’s insistence on buying her the fanciest possible feed, and there’s a new poise about her, an elegance, like she knows exactly how important she is. 

They flow effortlessly into a canter once they pass Louis’s corner. It’s as fast as they can afford to go in here, but Marshmallow seems to enjoy it anyway. 

Louis remembers he’s supposed to be watching, and zeroes in on her legs. They’ve been working on switching leads for over a week now, and it’s boring for all of them; the sooner he can declare her ready, the better. 

She’s on a right lead down the long side, as she should be. Liam flicks his wrist, barely noticeable, as they come up on the short. She stutters a bit, just a split second of uncertainty, then leads firmly with the left, leaning into it and making a beautiful curve. 

Louis smiles, and draws a big tick on an empty space in his notes, just because he can. 

They do three laps, each one better than the next. She’s taken to it exceptionally well, not at all resistant even though she’s seven, and Louis—Louis is happy, he really is. They’ve got something special brewing here. 

He’s even gotten used to the constant pain that’s lodged under his ribs, that longing to be where Liam is, to be watching from horseback instead of a plastic chair. Almost. 

“That felt right,” Liam says, reins in one hand as he stops her. “Except for whatever happened on the first turn.” 

Louis ducks under the rail and onto the floor, hobbling towards them. “She just got a bit confused,” he says when he reaches them, and holds her still while Liam dismounts. “But she figured it out. Didn’t you, beautiful?” 

She nuzzles into the front of his coat, scratching her nose. He drops his clipboard to the ground, lets go of his cane, and puts bot hands into petting her thoroughly, soaking up some of her warmth. 

Liam is stretching and grimacing through it, trying to extend his legs this way and that. 

“Careful,” Louis says, trying to keep Marshmallow’s curious nose out of his pocket. “Someone might think you’re getting old.” 

“Piss off,” Liam sticks out his tongue. Louis thinks he’s going for stern, but he ends up looking somewhat miserable instead. “I’m not used to this. I haven’t felt my arse in _days_.” 

“I can assure you it’s still there,” comes Harry’s voice from the door. Marshmallow jerks her head away, looking towards him. Louis can very much sympathise. 

“Oh, hi,” Liam smiles, straightening up. He starts brushing off his riding trousers, trying to be subtle about it, and Louis has to bite down on a laugh. Harry had told him, several times and in no uncertain terms, that he’s only Liam’s boss on paper, and doesn’t want him to act subservient, but Liam is—well, Liam. 

“Hiya,” says Louis, because that’s the polite thing to do. 

Harry comes into focus slowly, the light coming in from behind him making him little more than a silhouette. He looks ready to go somewhere, dressed in a fancy peacoat that makes him look broad, his hair loose. 

He’s also carrying an armful of Tupperwares. 

“Perfect timing,” he says when he stops in front of them, smiling. “I brought biscuits and, uh,” he pulls out a thermos that Louis hadn’t noticed, “tea.” 

“Marry me,” Liam blurts, which is, coincidentally, exactly what Louis had been thinking. 

Harry giggles, depositing his gifts into Liam’s waiting arms. “I’ll settle for a thank you,” he says, patting Liam’s shoulder. “I’ve got to go, but I wanted to see how the three of you were doing.” 

Louis feels bizarrely warm at being included. Which is bloody stupid, because he’s been with Liam every single time he’s come up here. 

“Really well, I’d say,” Louis answers, because Liam is already stuffing his face. “She’s got the hang of switching leads now, which is definitely progress.” 

Harry coos. He reaches for Marshmallow’s big head, petting her cheeks, and plants a kiss right in the middle of her forehead, where her hair grows in a little swirl. 

“Clever girl,” he says, and “well done.” He’s the absolute sweetest thing Louis has ever seen. “I’m not sure what switching leads means, but well done.” 

Louis laughs. “It’s just changing the leading leg, really,” he says, petting Marshmallow’s neck. “When she’s going straight she’ll lead with the right, because that’s what’s natural for most horses, but once she’s in a turn she’ll get better balance out of leading with the left, so. We’re just trying to show her that.” 

Harry listens to him with wide eyes, clearly not wanting to miss a single word. It makes Louis fidgety; blushy, almost, like he’s in secondary school all over again. 

“And she’s doing well, yeah?” he asks. “Overall?” 

“Yep,” Louis smiles at him. “No worries. We’ll see how she’s doing on speed when the track is done, but she’s lovely, Harry. You made the right decision by letting her do this.” 

Harry scratches his cheek, sheepish. “I was—I didn’t really want to, in the beginning. I’d hung up the phone and wanted to call you right back and cancel, but mum talked me out of it, and then I tossed and turned all night thinking about it, and—I just want her to be happy, you know? To do what she likes.” 

As of right now, Marshmallow seems plenty happy, leaning into Harry’s hands with eyes half closed. Her ears are drooping forward, relaxed. Once again, Louis can sympathise. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, this sweet, mellow buzz that wakes under his skin every time Harry enters the room, the happy stutter of his heart whenever Harry’s eyes are on him. His presence puts Louis at ease, but Harry the person—that’s a whole different ballgame. Every time Louis thinks he’s gotten used to him, has peeled back all of the layers that make up his personality, he does something like this. Something kind, or brave, or just all-round lovely. 

“I think she is,” Louis tells him, feeling a little clumsy in his many, many clothes. “I mean…look at her.” 

Harry already is, little sparkles dancing in his eyes as she grunts and shifts on her feet. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, like he thinks she might actually go to sleep and doesn’t want to wake her up. 

“Would probably be better if we could find someone to ride her,” Liam points out, oblivious to the softness that has settled over them. “So she could get used to someone who isn’t me.” 

“Oh,” Harry mumbles. “Still nothing?” 

Liam shakes his head, frowning.

“Maybe you could do it,” Louis says, joking. 

He’s not ready for Harry’s face to drop the way it does. 

“U-um,” he stammers, one of his hands flying up into his hair. “I’ve got—you know. Other things.” 

Louis feels suddenly unsettled, like the floor is tilting under his feet, but he makes a valiant attempt at saving face. 

“Like that mysterious job of yours?” 

Liam is looking between them like he’s seeing them both for the first time, a piece of biscuit sticking out of his mouth. Louis—hasn’t exactly shared the details of all his conversations with Harry, which just seem to keep happening. 

Harry smiles, only a little strained. “Exactly,” he says, “which is why I’ve really got to go. Um, Martha is inside if you need anything, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours, but I’m not sure…?” He trails off, looking right into Louis’s eyes even though he’s addressing both of them. 

“We’ll be here,” Louis promises, without so much as checking in with his best friend. 

Harry nods, smiles, gives Marshmallow another kiss, and walks away. His silhouette looks important, powerful, with the tails of his coat billowing behind him and his collar turned up. It makes Louis somewhat weak in the knees. 

“You two are very friendly,” Liam remarks, pouring out some tea. He takes a sip, then hands it to Louis and grabs Marshmallow’s reins. 

“We’re acquaintances,” Louis rolls his eyes, wrapping his hands around the thermos lid. The tea billows steam right up into his face, heat prickling at his frozen skin. “Same as you and him.” 

Liam snorts as he picks at the girth buckle. “He didn’t even look at me, Louis. I’m the one he’s paying to do a good job with this horse, but he only had eyes for you.” 

“Jealous?” Louis asks, his last line of defense. 

With the girth finally undone, Liam slides the saddle of Marshmallow’s back. She’s steaming, too, but she looks completely unbothered by it. 

“I’m not jealous,” Liam says finally, starting on a slow walk around the hall. His tone has changed, though, lost the hint of bite it had carried before. 

“Are so.” 

Liam heaves a sigh. “I just want you to talk to me, you know, like you usually do, because I’m your _best mate_. I’d like to know what’s going on with your—Harry situation.” 

Louis, mid-cautious first sip, spits out his tea. “My Harry situation?” 

“I know what it looks like when you’re completely gone for someone, remember?” He sounds happy now, probably because he’s realised he has the upper hand and can tease Louis until he gives in. He strolls around the hall with a spring in his step, Marshmallow right behind, both coming down from their morning workout. 

“I’m not gone for him,” Louis says. “I think he’s fit, but he doesn’t think I am, so.” 

Liam, just approaching, blinks. He looks like he wants to stop, maybe grab Louis by the shoulders and shake him a little, but he doesn’t. 

“Who told you _that_?” 

Louis smiles, though he has the feeling it comes out a little ugly. “Good old Bertha,” he says, lifting his cane and pointing it at him. 

“I told you not to name the cane,” Liam mumbles, before the meaning of Louis’s words catches up to him. He does stop, this time. The horse stops with him, and she stands still when he drops the reins and stomps over to Louis, kicking up dust clouds. 

He looks—shit, he looks angry. Louis doesn’t know what to do with an angry Liam. 

“You’re such a twat,” he says, eyebrows furrowed into a single line. Before Louis has time to decide whether to just run or throw the tea at him first, Liam is in front of him, and—and hugging him. 

Hugging him very, very tight. 

“Li—“

“Shush,” he says, and Louis decides to give in. He wraps his free arm around Liam’s back, buries his face in the collar of his riding jacket, and tells himself to relax. This is fine. It’s Liam, his best friend, who’s been looking out for him for years – who had to be physically pulled off of Simon Cowell before he managed to punch him in the face on Louis’s behalf. 

He brings up his other arm, cane and everything, and pats Liam on the back. 

“What is this—“ 

“I said shush.”

Louis huffs, hiding his grin in Liam’s shoulder. “Fine,” he says. He closes his eyes, and lets himself melt into it. 

It’s got to be at least a minute before Liam shows any signs of letting up, arms loosening a little.

“I’m such an idiot,” is the first thing he says when he lets go, keeping Louis close to him with hands in his shoulders. “I didn’t—I should have realised.”

“Realised what, Li? You’re scaring me.” He is. It’s only now that Louis realises how frantic he looks, his eyes wide and stepping from foot to foot. “And why am I a twat?” 

“Because you told me—you said it didn’t bother you.”

Just like that, a ball of what feels like solid lead falls into Louis’s stomach. 

“You said you understood that you weren’t worth any less because of it, and I _knew_ you were lying, but I thought maybe if I let you—“ 

“Liam,” Louis says, trying to keep his voice level. “I do understand it. I do, I swear.” 

Liam wipes away a few stressed tears. “Then why would you say something like that?” 

Louis sighs. He reaches out, pinches Liam’s cheek, just to get him to do something other than clutch Louis’s shoulders. “It’s just—it’s not easy to remember. I have to keep reminding myself, you know? I wake up in the morning, and there’s a voice in my head going _you’ve got a gimp leg and you’ll never get to do what you love again_. It’s there right now, and I have to shout over it every single day. I just get tired of it sometimes.” 

“Louis,” Liam says, uselessly smoothing down the lapel of Louis’s coat. 

“It’s alright,” Louis tells him. This should be exhausting, would be if it were anyone other than Liam, but as it is, he just feels—warm. “I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m alive, because you dragged the doctor to me before anyone else realised something was wrong, remember?” 

Liam chuckles wetly. “God,” he says, and sounds like wants to add something else, but the line of his mouth ripples and stays shut. He remembers, clearly, even if Louis doesn’t. 

He has very few memories of the whole day, partly because of the nerves and partly because of his life-threatening head injury. All he sees is darkness, no matter how deep he tries to delve; he hears the thunder of a dozen horses running straight at him and Liam’s voice, cutting through the commotion, _screaming_ Louis’s name. 

There were pictures, later. Of Liam holding a medic by the collar, and vaulting himself over the fence into the dirt wearing his Armani coat, and throwing boards off of Louis like they didn’t weigh a thing. 

Louis had laughed, the first time he saw them, and then made Liam crawl into his hospital bed and stay for a week. 

“Listen,” he says, fingers wrapped around Liam’s wrist. “Harry just—doesn’t like me that way. It’s his right to find someone with a limp unattractive, you know.” 

“Don’t insult him,” Liam scowls. “And you’re not—he likes you. _That way_. It’s right there for anyone to see, except for you, because you’re a _twat_.” 

Finally, the terseness in the air is broken. Louis can breathe again. 

“You’re a bloody catch,” Liam continues, poking an accusatory finger into Louis’s chest. “I need you to tell yourself that in front of a mirror. At least twice a day.” 

The corner of Louis’s mouth twitches. The situation still seems a little too fragile, but he can’t quite help himself when he bursts into laughter. 

“I’m serious!” Liam shouts, but he’s relaxed a little. “Soph taught me that. It helps a lot.” 

Louis hiccups. “Liam,” he gasps, trying to get himself together. “Liam, tell me. What would I do without you?” 

Finally, Liam grins. It’s the wide, happy kind, the exact same smile he’s wearing in all the pictures from his winning races. 

“Let’s never find out,” he says, and wraps an arm around Louis’s shoulders. “But I really—can you promise you’ll tell me things, next time? We don’t—not talk to each other.” 

He does have a point there. Sharing – oversharing – has been one the foundations of their relationship from the very beginning. If Louis hadn’t complained about the rash that his new jodhpurs gave him, way back when, they might have never become anything more than professional acquaintances. 

“Sure,” he sighs. “I’ll, uh, keep you updated.” 

Liam smiles, and smacks a kiss to Louis’s temple. “Thank you. Now go get Marshmallow a blanket, pretty please.” 

And he runs off, back to their horse, who’s still standing in place but fidgeting impatiently. She still looks keyed up, poor thing, and Louis suddenly feels very guilty for taking Liam’s attention away from her. 

Still, “Prick!” he shouts after him, and scowls at his answering laugh. 

“Love you too, Tommo!” 

Louis shakes his head. He picks up his tea, down the rest of it, and walks out of the riding hall with his hands in his pockets.

*

“A party,” Louis repeats, pretzel stick held halfway up to his mouth.

“Yes!” Harry says on the other end of the line, voice tinny but enthusiastic. “I just want everyone to meet each other, you know? You’ve been here for almost a month and you don’t know anybody.” 

“I know Martha,” Louis says, offended. Martha is lovely. She makes Louis's tea exactly the way he likes it. 

“I mean the horse people,” says Harry. “The kids especially. They’ve been asking about Marshmallow’s training, and I don’t know what to tell them.” 

“The kids?” 

“Yeah, I—I’ll explain at the party. Which you’re coming to, yeah?” 

Louis sighs. “I’m not sure, Liam might have plans with his girlfriend—“ 

“Bring her, too,” Harry interrupts. “Bring anyone you’d like. I'll have a buffet, plenty of food for everyone.” 

And really, how could Louis say no? Harry sounds so excited, so _eager_.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, we’ll be there.” 

“Yes! Thank you so much. Saturday at five, see you then.” 

“See you,” Louis says, and the line goes dead. 

“Who was that?” Niall asks, one eyebrow a perfect condescending arch. He’s on his third beer, stretched on Louis’s sofa like this isn’t the second time he’s ever visited. 

“Why do you care?” Louis asks, sipping on his gin and tonic. He’s on a break from painkillers – now seems as good a time as any to get drunk. It’s somewhat sad, because he’s doing it in his own living room with his physiotherapist, but he'll take it. 

“Don’t,” Niall shrugs, but there’s a spark in his eye that suggests otherwise. “You’re blushing, though.” 

Louis _is not_. “I’m not. It’s the booze.” 

Niall cackles. “Sure it is,” he says. “So, who’s Harry?” 

Louis throws a pillow at him.

*

As per Harry’s insistence, they roll into the parking lot at five sharp that Saturday. Louis has been relegated to the back seat, because Sophia gets shotgun by nature of being Liam’s girlfriend. He all but throws himself out of the car as soon as he can, digging his cane into the gravel and stretching his limbs.

It’s gone dark already, the house a beacon in the distance. Liam charitably lends Louis his elbow as they make their way over there, helping him navigate the uneven path in the blackness. 

“This is posher than I expected,” Sophia says, walking alone in her five-inch heels, because that’s the sort of thing Sophia does. “I know you said he’s rich, but—wow.” 

“I _know_ ,” Liam giggles, letting go of Louis when they make it to the front steps. Louis lets him walk up first and get the knocker, because he’s aware of the child-like enjoyment Liam gets out of it. 

The door only takes seconds to open. Bright light and warmth spill out from inside, a din of voices and tinkling piano music, but Louis’s eyes stay glued to the person who opened the door – Harry, of course. 

Louis had thought he’d be fine tonight. He really, really had. 

“Hello,” Harry dimples, smiling in that absolutely disarming way of his and extending a hand. “I’m Harry.” 

“Sophia,” she shakes it, already smiling. “This is a very nice place.” 

They chit chat for a while more, probably, but Louis tunes them out in favour of looking down at himself. He’s wearing black jeans, because Harry said it was a casual thing, but he did delve into the depths of his wardrobe and dig out his favourite blazer, the one that makes his waist look bloody amazing. Now that he’s seen Harry, though – well, let’s just say he pales in comparison. 

He doesn’t understand it, really, how Harry can look so effortlessly rich yet so approachable all at the same time. He’s got a real silk shirt on, with a _neck tie_ that’s shaped like a flower, and the cut of his jacket is the most delicious thing Louis has ever seen. 

And – oh, Louis thinks as he surveys his hands, running over Sophia’s bracelet – he’s wearing nail varnish. It’s dark red, and a little chipped on his middle finger, but so, _so_ pretty. 

Louis is fucked again. He’s fucked all the time. Perpetually. Just not in the literal sense, though he’d very much like to be. 

He bites his lip a touch too hard, just to get himself to focus, and has a smile on his face in time to say hi. 

Harry’s eyes are sparkling, and there’s a gorgeous flush creeping up his neck. Louis suspects he might be a little drunk. 

“Hello,” Louis says, smiling, because it’s Harry and he gets to be around him. “We, uh—I’m not sure where Liam’s gone, but he has some wine that we brought. I swear I haven’t come to a posh party empty-handed.” 

Harry giggles – yep, definitely had a few drinks – and leans forward. 

Before Louis knows what’s happening, they’re hugging – just a short thing, barely anything, really, saying hello like friends do. Louis still goes dizzy with it. 

Harry smells so fucking good. He’s wearing cologne, of course, probably something French that neither of them can pronounce, but it’s the scent underneath that hits Louis like a sledgehammer. It’s so irrefutably _him_ , a bit of spice and a bit of sweat. Louis wants to wrap it around him like a blanket. 

“Hi,” Harry says into his ear, all breathy, his lips catching on the shell of it. Louis suppresses a fully-body shiver. 

They let go, and cool air immediately fills the gap between them. It can’t have been more than five seconds, the hug, but Louis feels like a changed man. 

“Come in,” Harry says, bathed in the light of the chandeliers while the party goes on behind him, clinking silverware and glistening jewelry. 

They’ve barely stopped touching, but somehow, he feels further than he’s ever been.

*

It’s eight in the evening, and Louis is trying to shake a teenager.

That makes him sound awful – it isn’t that long since he was one, after all – but he absolutely cannot cope with one more question. He also wants to get some champagne in him, and possibly something stronger, but he can’t very well do that while chatting to a seventeen-year-old. 

As it turns out, _the kids_ are a gaggle of teenagers from the suburbs who come and go as they please. They ride and take care of Harry’s horses whenever they can just because they love to do it, and because Harry lets them (of _course_ he bloody does). Theoretically, Louis should have a lot in common with them. 

In practice, he wants to rip his eyes out of his skull. 

His current admirer is called Olly, and he’s absolutely lovely, really – it’s just that Louis lost all will to tolerate him after approximately two hours. 

“Don’t you think it’s fascinating, though?” he’s asking now, eyes sparkling. “She’s six already, but she learned a new command in under a week! I’d like to be a trainer one day, have I told you that?” 

Louis sips on his glass of Coke, desperately pretending it’s wine. “She’s a very good horse,” he says. He’s trying his hardest to be kind, he really is. “And my friend is a very good trainer. Match made in heaven.” 

Olly nods. He runs a hand through his hair, which is very, very curly, and makes a wild mess of it on top of his head. It’s quite endearing. 

“Do you think I could speak to him? Your friend, I mean.” 

“Sure,” Louis says, already looking over people’s heads. “I’m not sure where he is, but you’ll know him when you see him. He’s wearing a bowtie.” 

“Is he now?” Olly grimaces, tugging on the collar of his incredibly loud polo. “I reckon that won’t be difficult, then. Thank you, Louis,” he says, then turns around and shouts “Neil!” at a deafening volume. Most of the room turns to him, but he doesn’t seem to care, just waits until this Neil person joins him. They walk off, presumably in search of Liam, hand in hand. 

Louis smiles. 

The crowd swallows them up soon enough, a throng of people overdressed in various amusing ways. It’s then that Louis realises Olly is really gone. He’s _free_. 

He looks up in relief, watching as the light bounces off the crystals on the chandelier. Trust Harry to be hiding an entire banquet hall in his house. 

When nobody else shows any intention of trying to talk to him, Louis leaves his glass on the nearest table and makes a beeline for the bar. It’s small, probably doesn’t have much on offer, but he really can’t be bothered to care. 

He asks for a glass of red and leans against one of the stools, surveying the room. He’s learned way too many names in the past three hours, and probably can’t remember them all, but it’s nice to finally be able to identify the faces that he sees around every day, mostly hiding in the shadows whenever he and Liam are around. 

There’s Martha of course, Harry’s not quite cleaning lady, wearing a glitzy cocktail dress instead of her usual uniform, and Steve and Chris who take care of the fences. Over by the record player is Dave, Louis thinks, who comes around once a week to tend to Harry’s plants, and Alan the _occasional stablehand_ , as he’d introduced himself. A few more people Louis has never seen, and some of the kids who act like they’re right at home, even in an environment like this. The thing is, though, there’s nobody in the room who works here for real, no nine to five employees to take care of the house or the horses or Harry. He does it all on his own, Martha had said, and Louis’s chest had grown tight at the thought. 

Either way, there are a lot of people. Harry flits between all of them, ever the social butterfly, champagne flute in hand and a smile on his face. He’s probably the happiest Louis has ever seen him. 

“Here you go, sir,” says the bartender, probably Louis’s own age and just being cheeky, as he puts the wine glass down on the bar. Louis grabs it eagerly and takes a sip. It’s—good, probably. All he knows about wine is that it gets him drunk quicker than anything else. 

There are a few people by the door who are already on their way out, trying to find their coats under a dozen others. It takes Harry less than five seconds to spot them and wander over, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. He’s flushed, the curls on his temples sticking to his face, and he’s clearly having the time of his life. 

Louis, on the other hand, is feeling a little suffocated. He hasn’t been around this many people in months, and even though the room is not full enough to have anyone breaching his personal space, it’s still just a bit too much.

Unable to find Liam and ask him for help, Louis decides to take his wine and get some fresh air. He slips out unnoticed into the freezing night, and regrets it as soon as the chills gets under his cuffs and past his collar, prickling on bare skin. He’s not one to give up, though, and he walks on, cautious step after cautious step, feeling out the ground with his cane and sipping all the while. Some of the windows are open, letting out warmth and laughter, but nobody notices him, hobbling around using the creamy white walls are a reference point in the dark. 

He can’t see the horses when he looks around, and hopes they won’t ambush him as he veers away and towards the stable. It’s barely a silhouette against the starless sky, but he’s been in it enough times to find both the door and the light switch. 

A couple of small lamps flicker to life high overhead. They illuminate the pile of straw in one corner, the packed dirt floor, the stalls – all blessedly empty. 

“Hello?” Louis asks, just in case, but there’s no answer. 

It only just occurs to him how ridiculous he must look, standing in the dusty stable with his cane in one hand and an immaculately polished wine glass in the other. He’s already here, though, and he’s earned a few minutes of alone time. 

He walks to the very back corner, to the stall they’ve started prepping for when Marshmallow will need to be separated from the herd pre-competition. The stack of straw he’d left earlier in the week is still there. He folds into it gratefully, relaxing with no regard for his clothes. 

He closes his eyes. Inhales; holds it in; exhales. The scents of the room stick in his nose, hay and dry dirt and horse. He blinks his eyes ope , takes a look at the wooden walls of the stall. They still look new even though the building is old, shiny with varnish, if a little dusty. Louis reaches out to trace the lines of the closest one, the long years hidden in waves and swirls and dark knobs, and that’s when he notices. 

There’s a shallow engraving in the wood, scratchy like someone had done it with a key or a coin. It seems a little aged, barely visible, but the letters are clear enough:

 _H + W_. 

Louis is instantly alert, any traces of relaxation gone. He traces the _H_ , over and over again, until the groove of it lingers in his fingers. 

It stands for _Harry_. It has to. 

He looks around, trying to spot another engraving, anything, but there’s nothing more. Just the two letters and a plus between them, straight out of a cliché teen romance. 

Louis burns, suddenly, with how much he wants to know who this _W_ is. Their initial is old, probably a few years at least, and Harry lives alone. But they were here, once upon a time. Maybe they lay in the same spot Louis is now, the two of them; maybe Harry felt so much love, just then, that he wanted to remember it forever. 

Maybe Louis is overthinking. Maybe the _W_ stands for Harry’s sister, the one he misses so much. 

As if on cue, the door slides open, a loud screech of metal in the quiet night. Louis sits up, brandishing his empty glass like a weapon. 

“Who’s there?” he asks, perhaps unwisely. If a mass murdered just came in, they would’ve never noticed Louis all the way back here if he’d just stayed fucking _quiet_. 

The person is a dark silhouette, the edges of it sketchy as it looks in from the blackness of the night, but Louis thinks he recognises the way its shoulders hunch. 

“Louis?” the silhouette speaks. Louis lets out a relieved breath. 

“Back here,” he says, quiet. 

Harry stumbles into the light, just as pretty as he had been all evening. He looks a little debauched, a little like he’s just stepped out of some fancy painting, red-faced and smiling with his neck tie missing. There’s a slightest hint of hesitation in his step, like he has to think about where he’s putting his feet. 

“Sorry,” he says when he’s made it to Louis’s stall, towering over him. “I figured you want to be alone, but I saw you walking off into the dark and I was worried.” 

Louis shakes his head, smiling. He doesn’t have the words to explain that Harry is the exception, but he hopes it shows on his face. 

“Sit down before you tip over,” he says, extending a worried hand. 

Harry sways in place a little, then takes one last step into the stall, and plops into the straw with a soft _oof_. He’s—very close. Close enough that Louis feels the warmth he’s radiating.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He seems a little tired in these lights, not as happy as he had been in his banquet hall. “I think I need to sober up a little.” 

Louis laughs. “A bit too happy with the drinks, were you?” 

“You have no idea,” Harry groans, a small pout on his lips. “Martha bet me I couldn’t drink three appletinis in three minutes.” 

“ _No_ ,” Louis gasps, mock scandalised. “Did you win the bet?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Only drank two and a half.” 

Louis isn’t sure what it is – the wine, or maybe the heat of Harry’s presence. He reaches out, slow, careful, and pets Harry’s curls. 

“Poor thing,” he says, grinning, and Harry giggles in response. He turns his head into Louis’s touch, almost nuzzling, and keeps frowning until Louis buries his fingers deeper, tracing little circles in Harry’s scalp. He doesn’t scream out loud, but it’s a close thing. 

“’M sorry,” Harry says again, slurring a little. “I’m not usually this much of a mess.” 

Louis is sure he must have stars in his eyes by now, born out of the way he feels when he looks at this boy. “You seem quite alright,” he says. “At least compared to some of the others. I think I saw someone trying to forward roll down the staircase earlier.” 

Harry laughs. There’s a little squeaky note to his voice, so unbelievably endearing. 

“I did tell everyone to have fun.” 

Louis smiles, hand still in Harry’s hair, and lets himself relax a little, leaning back. Any fear he might have been feeling evaporated the second he recognised Harry’s stumbling gait. 

There’s silence, only for a bit, just the two of them slumped in a horse stall and breathing into the chilly night air. A slight wind picks up outside every now and then, whispering through the grass and masking the little rasp of Harry’s inhales. 

Louis can’t stop thinking about the engraving. 

It’s still right there, very much real, inconspicuous in the wood just over Harry’s shoulder. Louis feels bolstered by his presence, by the little bit of alcohol running through his veins, and he doesn’t try to stop himself when he asks:

“Are you H?” 

Harry blinks, slow and thorough, once, twice, three times. His curls catch the light just right when he turns to look at Louis. 

“Sorry?” he asks, and he’s so open, just then, so vulnerable and lovely. Louis feels bad for asking again, but he _can’t stop_. 

“This,” he says, reaching out to touch the letters. “I just figured I’d ask.” 

He can pinpoint the exact moment Harry realises what he’s talking about, and it makes him want to take everything back three times over. 

Harry’s gorgeous, sweet expression disappears, and in its place falls a mask. It’s startlingly familiar, and it’s only now Louis realises how many times he’s seen this Harry, so obviously guarded, and thought him to be genuine. 

He watches the thin line of Harry’s lips, devoid of colour from how hard he’s pressing them together. 

“I—I’m not sure how that got there, to be honest,” he says, eyes on the ground, like he doesn’t even want to look. “Must’ve been the kids.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Louis points out, barely audible. 

Harry looks at him – just looks. He looks like a wilted flower compared to the way he’d walked in, his shoulders sagging, hair hanging down to obscure his face. 

Louis shakes his head. What is _wrong_ with him? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, like he should’ve done several minutes ago. “It’s none of my business.” 

Harry nods. He’s all folded up now, barely taking up space, arms wrapped around his knees. Eyes closed, he props his forehead on his knees, and doesn’t say anything else. 

Louis’s throat burns. His tongue is heavy and useless in his mouth when he tries to find something to say, words of comfort, or maybe a spell to reverse time. If he could just—go back and not ask. Maybe smack his self from two minutes ago. _Fuck_ , he thinks, and it gets stuck on a loop in his head. _Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck._ He can’t help feeling like he’s just ruined something, demolished a trust that they’d only just started building. 

Or maybe that’s the wine. Louis hasn’t had proper alcohol in a very long time. 

When he looks up again, Harry hasn’t changed positions, but the grip he’d had on his knees has loosened. He’s— _asleep_. 

Louis reaches out and taps his arm, the smallest, lightest touch he’s capable of. Harry lets out a huff of breath in response, but doesn’t wake. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers. It’s suddenly much easier to say. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m sorry.” 

There’s no answer, just a whistle of wind somewhere up by the roof. Louis sighs, lets his head thud back, and closes his eyes. 

He wakes up at six in the morning to Liam yelling at him. 

Harry is gone.

*

They don’t talk about The Incident, and Louis most certainly doesn’t think about it. Life goes on as normal, absolutely peachy.

Except Liam has been glaring at him for going on two weeks, and Louis is reaching the end of his rope. 

“It’s not like he’s my mother,” he complains, pushing his foot against Niall’s hand a bit too hard. “I don’t have to report to him. I’m twenty-three years old, Niall, I can spend my Saturday night wherever I want.” 

“He’s just worried,” Niall says. Louis looks at him in surprise – he assumed that Niall has stopped listening like he usually does. 

“I can take care of myself, though. He doesn’t _need_ to worry.” 

“That why you spent fifteen minutes complaining about him not giving you a ride today?” 

“ _No_ ,” Louis says, even though Niall’s kind of got him there. He’d been pissed at Liam, because him bowing out meant he had to call Harry, and things between them are—well. Harry acts completely normal, smiling and joking and telling more anecdotes from his posh childhood. It’s only Louis’s brain that seems to turn into the world’s largest, most useless collection of cymbal monkeys whenever he’s supposed to act like a person. 

The Incident may be weighing on him a little bit. 

They move on to wall squats, Louis’s least favourite activity in the whole entire world, but he’s so lost in his head he powers through them without a single complaint. 

“Alright,” Niall says, clapping his hands. “We’re done. And we’ve still got…” he looks at his watch, “wow, twenty minutes to spare. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“We don’t run over time that often,” Louis grumbles, even though he knows that’s a lie. 

Niall laughs, because he knows it too. 

Louis helps him pack everything away, rolling up some spare mats and arranging the balls in a neat row by the wall just like Niall likes it. He wouldn’t be caught dead cleaning, normally, but it’s their last session before Christmas, and they only pick back up in three weeks’ time. Louis is going to miss him, just a bit. 

“You’ll be alright then?” Niall asks, as if reading Louis’s mind. “Without me, I mean. If you just go through your home exercises like you normally do, I think—“

“I’ll be fine, Irish,” Louis grins. “I’ll do my stretches and my air biking and my leg lifts. You won’t even recognise me when you get back.” 

Niall squints. “Do we need to talk about overexertion, because I’ve got time after this—“ 

“No!” Louis interrupts, in a hurry to get away before Niall gets going. He’s heard that particular talk no fewer than seven times, and could probably recite it from memory. “No overexertion. I’ll take care of myself. Send you snaps of every exercise I do.” 

“Please don’t,” Niall sighs. “I want to have a nice time with my family, not look at your ugly legs.” 

“You wish you had these legs, Chicken Little, ” Louis replies. 

Niall cackles so loudly it rings around the room.

“Have a good time in Ireland,” Louis tells him when they’re just about done, and opens his arms for a hug. Niall tries to act reluctant, but he steps up eagerly, and they sway from side to side for a good couple of minutes. 

“Cheers,” he says as he pats Louis on the back, “you have a nice Christmas. And happy birthday, you arse.” 

Louis pulls back. “I never told you—“ 

“I have your medical records, Louis.” 

They let go after that, turning out the light. Louis swings his backpack over his shoulder, waiting for Niall by the door, when he realises he’s missing something. 

“Hey, Niall,” he calls into the dark, waiting until he hears a curious grunt, “where’s my cane?” 

Silence. Niall joins him in the doorway with his lips pursed, looking conflicted. 

Louis blinks. “Niall? My cane?” 

He sighs, then rubs his forehead. “You came without it,” he mumbles. 

“I did not—“ Louis starts, certain that Niall’s having him on, but the words die a swift death right there in his throat. Because Niall—Niall is right. 

Louis has no memory of having his cane with him when he got into Harry’s car, or when he took the lift up to Niall’s office. He’d left it at home. 

“I left it at home,” he breathes, and the world stutters a little on its axis. “I left my bloody cane.” 

He hadn’t even realised until now, he’d been so distracted thinking about how to act with Harry. He hadn’t missed it—hadn’t _needed_ it. 

“I didn’t wanna tell you,” Niall says. “I wasn’t sure if you knew you didn’t have it.” 

Louis shakes his head. “I didn’t.” 

He’d walked – just walked, without leaning on anything, from the parking lot to the building, and now he’s walking back. No cane to wrap his fingers around, just his own body, actually holding him up the way it’s supposed to, his achy bones working without a single hitch. 

“Well then,” Niall grins, and keeps grinning as he locks the door behind them and calls the lift. “It’s going to be a very merry Christmas.”

*

Louis isn’t sure about merry, but it certainly is white. A few days before Christmas Eve, London wakes up to a pristine white blanket of snow. It’s wet, the kind that can’t quite decide what it wants to be and melts by lunchtime, but it’s exciting regardless.

The track at Harry’s finally gets finished, a state-of-the art single mile of locally sourced turf, with the white railing like they’ve got in the movies and everything. They start training in earnest, and Marshmallow, lovely hard-working thing that she is, improves lightning fast. 

But unfortunately for her, all of Liam’s nets have come up empty. 

“How is this possible?” he wonders aloud, jogging around the corral with Marshmallow on his heels. “I’ve put her training times in every ad. They should be _queuing_ to ride her.” 

“Maybe it’s because nobody knows who Harry is,” Louis shrugs, leaning against the fence and chewing on an apple. “And she hasn’t won anything yet. Probably don’t expect to get paid much.” 

Liam changes direction, turns sharply towards the centre of the circle and back in. Marshmallow follows, completely unfazed. 

“Plus she’s seven, and this is the first time she’s being trained for racing. It’s really not that surprising, Li.” 

“We might as well start looking for a jockey, at this rate,” Liam frowns. “She needs someone lighter, and she needs them right now.” 

Louis scratches his head. “One of the kids, maybe?” 

“I’ve already tried,” Liam says. “None of them are eighteen yet, and I don’t particularly want to try and convince someone’s parents it’s safe to ride at forty miles per hour.” 

As if she understood, Marshmallow sidesteps to the inside of the circle and jogs up to Liam until they’re shoulder to shoulder. 

“Hey,” Liam says when he notices her, barely pretending to be stern, “easy, babe. This one’s not a race.” 

He manages to outrun her and get her back in check, doing what she’s supposed to do – following him. Louis isn’t sure what the goal is here, but it’s always been part of Liam’s training plan.

“Maybe you should put an ad on Gumtree,” he muses. It’s a testament to how stressed Liam is that he barely even laughs. 

It goes on that way through most of December, the temperature dropping surprisingly low as Liam and Marshmallow work their way up to mile-long gallops. Harry’s vet pays them a visit to check on the mare's bones, and officially declares her fit to race.

And Louis—well, Louis watches, and writes notes, and keeps records. He becomes the designated snack-sneaker, and Marshmallow jogs up to him whenever she sees him to inspect his pockets. He keeps Harry up to date, and Harry returns the favour by getting more beautiful every day, the winter chill permanently staining his cheeks pink. 

The season is going to be in full swing soon, but Louis isn’t worried about that. Right now, he has everything he could possibly need.

*

“ _Darling_ ,” is the first thing mum says when he opens the door. He can barely see her face, bundled up as she is, but he can tell that she’s smiling.

“Hello,” he grins, taking all her bags off her hands even as she protests. He hugs her after, and plants a kiss on her cold cheek, and she wraps her arms around him like he’s just come home from war. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” she says, “let me look at you.” She pulls back to squint at his face and pinch his cheek, so mum-like it makes Louis’s chest ache for a childhood he left behind a long time ago. “Gorgeous as always,” is her verdict. “You look like you’ve been eating.” 

“I have,” Louis says, peering out into the corridor. “Harry—Liam’s boss—he’s a great cook. Always makes too much, so we usually stay for dinner.” 

Mum hums, pulling off her gloves. Louis watches her until he can hear voices drifting up from the ground floor. Somebody’s running up the stairs, a loud _stomp-stomp-stomp_ echoing through the whole building. Louis can only hope that after the last three Christmases, his neighbours are used to this. 

Daisy is the first one at the top, and Phoebe right behind her, somehow much taller than when Louis had seen them last. 

He bends down and opens his arms, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt with it.

“Louis!” they shout in unison, and literally tackle him to the ground. He laughs as he tries to sit up, two sets of limbs wrapped all over him like octopi. He’d been a bit worried, though he’ll only admit that to himself – the twins are twelve now, and massively popular at school if what he’s been hearing from mum is true. They could have thought themselves too cool to hug their older brother. 

Louis is the best brother in the world, though. And nobody’s ever too cool for hugging in the Tomlinson-Deakin household.

“Hiya, monsters,” he grins, tickling where he can reach. They groan in unison, but don’t complain about their old nickname. 

Fizzy’s there next, then Lottie with Doris in her arms, and Louis pulls both himself and the twins to their feet just to open his arms again. They surround him, and he ends up slightly squished in the middle, but he most definitely doesn’t mind. 

“Lou!” Doris babbles when they let go, reaching out for him, and he almost trips over himself in his haste to get to her. Dan’s come up the stairs behind them in the meantime, holding Ernest, who’s fast asleep and drooling on his shoulder. 

Louis distributes more hugs and kisses more cheeks, all while Doris pulls on his earlobe, and gives Dan a hug hello. There’s an overwhelming feeling of _rightness_ settled into every cell of his being, a quiet, steady happiness as he watches them hang up their jackets and get out of their wet shoes. 

This is home, and he’s missed it so, so much. 

“What’s new, then?” asks Lottie as she leads the way into the living room, like they didn't spend two hours on Facetime earlier that week. 

“You tell me,” Louis challenges, pulling some of his hair out of Doris’ mouth. “I’ve seen your Instagram, you know—“ 

“Oi!” 

“It’s public, Lotts. Anyone can go on it.“ 

“Lick,” Doris interrupts, repeating some of Louis’s words. “Lou lick.” 

Louis has to physically stop himself from peppering kisses all over her little face. 

“I’d like to know what Lou licks,” Lottie mutters, and Louis’s eye widen. He looks around in scandal, ready to play it off, but he realises there’s no need. It’s just Fizzy, smirking while she pretends to look at her phone, and the older twins already sitting around Louis’s laptop, whispering something. 

“That was rude, young lady,” he says, a little bit serious, feeling depressingly old. 

“I just want you to be happy,” she blinks, the very picture of innocence. “And also, you don’t ever tell me anything. I’m curious.” 

Doris wiggles, pinching the skin of Louis’s arm. He crouches and gently sets her on the floor, where he’s already set out blankets and toys he bought specially for this occasion, after mum informed him that the ones from six months ago simply wouldn’t do. 

“If you _must know_ ,” he says importantly, watching his youngest sister toddle towards the TV, “the last thing I’ve licked was an ice lolly.”

Fizzy laughs. Lottie huffs and throws a pillow at her. “I forgot how much I hate you,” she says. 

Louis climbs up on the sofa, right next to her, pressing an annoying, wet kiss to her forehead. “Missed you too.” 

He has to get up eventually and help mum and Dan put away the food they’ve brought, but he gets a sleepy little Ernest out of it. He wanders away with him, far from the commotion in the living room as he scrunches his face and blinks sleep out of his eyes. 

“Hey, little bro,” Louis whispers, then grimaces. “That’s an ugly word, that, isn’t it. Liam’s my bro. You’re my Ernest.” 

“Ehnest,” he nods solemnly, pacifier tumbling out of his mouth and down his shirt, where it stays, because mum had put it on one of them safety string things. 

It’s been twenty minutes, and Louis is already covered in baby saliva. He’s loving every single second of it. 

“That’s right,” he tells Ernest, rocking him a little as he walks up to his bedroom window. There are strings of fairy lights twinkling between street lamps, some overachieving neighbour’s pet project, and in the forefront is snow, falling in soft, fluffy tufts. It’s quiet in a way that only Christmas Eve can be. 

“Look at that,” he says, his breath fogging up the window. He takes Ernest’s hand and draws a smiley face in the condensation. His little brother squeaks when his finger touches the glass, mouth open wide in a surprised _O_. Louis laughs at him. 

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” he asks, watching as a car rolls by, soundless in the fresh snow. “Like the whole street is a Christmas tree.” 

“Twee,” Ernest agrees, leaning forward to put his entire palm on the window. This is where mum would tut and pull him away, worried about handprints, but Louis can’t bring himself. “Twee. Quish-mesh.” 

Louis gasps. “ _Christmas_? Is that what you’re saying?” 

“Quish-mesh,” Ernie confirms. 

Louis kisses him on the head. “Clever boy,” he says through his smile. 

He lets Ernest stand on the windowsill, button nose pressed against the glass and watching as the fairy lights flicker. His eyes are wide, utterly fascinated, and he barely notices Louis mumbling nonsense, trying to get him to repeat more words. 

It’s been months since he’s seen his babies in person. Mum keeps him updated with a new picture at least every other day, and an extensive commentary of every milestone they reach, but it’s not the same. The last time Louis had held them, they still had that baby smell about them, were just about starting to crawl. And now – now they’re walking all on their own. They call him _Lou_ instead of that happy babbling noise they used to make whenever they saw him. 

He’s not going to be sad about it, though. Not today, not while he has them here. Christmas is for presents, and food, and celebrating Louis’s birthday, and he’s going to do all that surrounded by his family. 

“Should we go find mum?” he asks, poking Ernie’s belly. “Should we see what our sisters are up to?” 

“Mum!” Ernest repeats immediately, latching onto the word and jumping on the windowsill. “Mum!” 

“Alright,” Louis grins, and reaches out for him. “Let’s go.” 

Ernest shrieks, a joyful little sound, and stretches his arms towards Louis.

The lights go out. 

Louis just manages to catch his brother, stumbling a little. He thinks he must’ve closed his eyes, at first, but he can’t see anything even as he blinks until his eyes water. 

Ernest meeps. Louis holds him tighter, hugging him to his own chest while he tries to get his bearings. 

The street outside is dark, darker than Louis has ever seen it. The fairy lights are out, and so are the street lamps.

“Shit,” he whispers and turns away, trying to find his way out of the bedroom. He’s got his phone in his back pocket, but he doesn’t want to let go of Ernie to get it. 

“Mum?” he calls, and several voices rise all at once. 

“In here,” she calls back, carrying over them all, from what Louis thinks is the living room. 

He manages to make his way there, as disoriented as he is, and is greeted by six drab faces lit up by smartphone screens. 

“Um,” he says, shifting Ernest in his arms. “I don’t suppose one of you just turned the power off?” 

“It’s the whole street,” Fizzy says, looking out of the window. “Probably the whole block, actually. I can see the stars.” 

That’s _bad_. That’s really, really bad. Louis panics a little, then tries to pretend he’s got it under control. 

“Okay,” he says, breathing out to calm himself. “I’m, um—I’m going to go call EDF.” 

“Love, it’s Christmas Eve,” mum says. 

“Still,” Louis shrugs, then goes to her and hands over Ernest. “I’m going to go call EDF.” 

“I’m cold,” Daisy says just before Louis exits the room. It’s enough to make something twist in his chest, making breathing difficult as he taps in the number for his supplier. He’s still got a very, very small hope when he puts it up to his ear and goes through all the steps necessary to call in a power outage, is keeping his fingers crossed right up until the tinny voice on the other end tells him to please stay on the line, and that his expected wait time is seventy-two hours. 

“Fuck,” he says, only just manages to keep himself from shouting. “Fucking _shit_ , what the fuck.” 

_Think_ , he tells himself, _bloody think_. There has to be a hotel in town that’d let them check in. They’ll be warm, at least, even though it won’t be ideal, what without a Christmas tree—or the _food_ , which is in the fridge, which needs electricity to function, _fuck_ —

Calm. Louis is calm. He’s an adult, and he’s rich. He can handle this.

*

He can’t handle this.

“Love,” mum says, rubbing his shoulder where he’s slumped on the ground by the sofa, holding his face in his hands. Liam and Soph are up in Wolverhampton with Karen and Geoff and Liam’s sisters, and their house probably has power, but Louis had lost his spare key several months ago. He’s called three dozen hotels, and none of them, not a single one, can accommodate nine people on Christmas Eve. “Love, maybe it would be better if we went. You should come with us.” 

“Yeah,” Lottie smiles, shivering in her parka. “Back to Donny. Sounds like a great idea, let’s go.” 

Louis can’t do that, he _can’t_. If he went home right now, he’d probably forget himself and never leave again, and he can’t—he’s got physiotherapy and training and—oh. _Oh_.

“Wait,” he mumbles, to no one in particular, scrambling for his phone. This is an awfully rude thing to do, and he shouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but he’s truly reached the end of his rope. 

“Pick up,” he whispers as the phone rings, one monotonous beep after another. “Pick up, pick up, pick up—“ 

“Hello?” Harry’s voice rumbles through the line, and Louis nearly bursts into relieved tears. 

“Harry,” he tries to say, but his voice comes out choked. He clears his throat, then tries again: “Harry. Hi.” 

“Is everything alright?” Harry asks, immediately picking up on Louis’s distress – which isn’t hard, really, considering how close to crying he is. “Is—are you okay? Did something happen?” 

“Yeah,” Louis replies, then realises what he’s saying. “I mean, no, I’m okay, Liam’s fine, everyone’s alive.” 

“Thank God. Why are you calling on Christmas Eve, then?” 

“I, uh, I was wondering—I wanted to know if you’d happen to know a rich hotel owner, or something. The, uh, the power in my flat went out, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be back on anytime soon.” 

“Oh no,” Harry breathes. He sounds so genuine, so concerned that Louis has to swallow another lump that forms in his throat. “That’s _awful_ , I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” says Louis. “Do you—do you think there’s anyone who could help? I’ll pay anything.” 

Mum tuts and slaps his arm, but Louis doesn’t give in. He’s hosting this bloody Christmas, come hell or high water. 

“Don’t be silly,” says Harry, and something rustles on his end of the line. Louis thinks he hears echoing footsteps, like Harry’s just walking around. It’s then that he realises that there aren't any voices or music in the background – just Harry’s snuffly little breaths. “You can come here.” 

It takes a few seconds to register with Louis. “What?” 

“Come here,” Harry chuckles. “I’ve got power and gas and several spare bedrooms. Not much food though, I’m afraid.” 

“Wait, you’re—are you alone?” 

“Yep,” says Harry, and almost manages to make it sound cheerful. “The family’s in Thailand and Martha’s at home, it’s just me and the horses.” 

Louis’s heart hurts. “Are you sure you won’t mind, though?” 

“ _Yes_ , Louis. I’d, um. I’d really love some company, actually.” 

Louis is seconds away from jumping out of the window and sprinting to the Styles estate in just his socks. He needs to hug Harry, right now, immediately. 

“Fair warning, I’ve got my entire family with me,” Louis says, and manages to dodge the kick that Fizzy aims at his shoulder. 

Harry laughs. “You’ve been to my house. There’s plenty of space for everyone, even your six siblings.” 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Louis says. His voice has gone soft against his will, and both Lottie and mum are watching him with calculating looks in their eyes. 

“I’m offended,” Harry huffs. “Of course I remember. I remember everything.” 

Louis bites down on a grin. “The first mare to ever win the National?” 

“Charity, 1841,” Harry replies, immediately taking the bait. “Now get off the phone and get in the car. I’ll be waiting.” 

“We’ll bring food,” mum shouts, even though there’s no way she can actually hear their conversation. It makes Harry giggle. 

“ _Mum_ ,” Louis hisses, but his own lips are twitching. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry laughs into the phone. “Drive safe.” 

And that’s that.

*

Louis gets to ride in car number one with mum and Lottie and the babies, squinting at the road signs through the falling snow. The road leading directly to Harry’s house has all but disappeared, and he has to rely on strangely shaped trees to help him find the way.

“There,” he tells mum, pointing toward a cluster of lights in the distance that look vaguely like windows. 

Mum steers to the left, bumpily rolling through the snow. As soon as they get past the trees, Harry’s house emerges out of the darkness. The universe must have decided to take Louis’s side, after all. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t told me about this,” mum says when they get out of the car, looking around.

“I told you I have a job now,” Louis replies. Technically that’s not true – he doesn’t get paid, and has to turn down Harry’s offers of a wage at least once a week – but she doesn’t need to know that. 

He busies himself with unbuckling the straps of Doris’ car seat and lifting her out. She’d had a little kip on the way, but she seems awake now, pacifier held firmly between her teeth and blinking at Louis withbig blue eyes. He desperately wants to hold on to her and carry her all the way to the front door, but he hasn’t got his cane with him; it’s too risky. He passes her to Lottie.

“You didn’t tell me you worked at a place like _this_ ,” says mum, holding Ernest with one arm and using the other to navigate Dan into a parking space. “This— _Harry_ , he sounded so young on the phone, do you work for his parents?” 

Louis laughs. “No, Mum. He’s the only one who lives here.”

“All alone?” 

“Yep,” he says, stepping over to the other car to open the door for his sisters. Daisy and Phoebe give him a curtsy each, giggling, then wrap their arms around his waist all ready to go. Louis feels so very warm under his coat. 

“That’s quite sad,” mum says, first in line while the rest of them follow like ducklings. “What happened to his family?” 

“They live in Cheshire.” 

“And they didn’t come down for _Christmas_?” She sounds appalled. Louis reminds himself to give her a cuddle later.

“They’re on holiday,” he says, only mildly uncomfortable. Harry’s life isn’t his to share, even if mum is genuinely concerned. “I’m sure they’ll celebrate later, don’t you worry.” 

She stays quiet after that, but her lips are pursed – a sure sign of thoughts that she’s keeping to herself, for now. 

Louis walks carefully, with Phoebe and Daisy on each side of him, hands on their shoulders. The silence that’s fallen with the snow is almost ethereal; he thinks he can hear the horses somewhere close by. 

Fizzy makes it to the knocker first, and she bangs on the door loudly. Louis has to fight a persistent sense of déja vu. The last time he came here like this, in a procession and after dark, he’d ended up sleeping in the stable.

Harry takes about two seconds to pull the door open, clearly waiting in the hall already, and Louis’s heart jumps at the sight of him. 

“Hello,” he says, smiling. His eyes land on Fizzy first, then Dan and Ernest and mum, passing by all of them until he lands on Louis. “Hi,” he repeats, much quieter. Louis knows it’s just for him. 

“Hiya,” he grins. “We’re here. I hope you like babies.” 

Harry’s smiling already, but his lips stretch even wider. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and he looks so alive, so gorgeous, when he leans forward and says: “I _love_ babies. Come in, please.” 

They do, shuffling into the hallway one by one. Louis is used to the house now, barely registers the opulent décor and the expensive rugs, but his family are all looking around in wonder. 

“Let me help you with that,” Harry tells mum, getting her tote bag of food and the diaper bag off her shoulder before she can say anything. Jay smiles at him, clearly impressed – very impressed, actually. Louis knows every single one of his mum’s faces. 

“You _work here_?” Daisy whispers, elbowing him as she unbuttons her coat. 

“Sure do,” he grins, kicking off his shoes. “It’s not as posh as it looks, don’t worry.” 

“Heey,” Harry crows, mock-offended, as he closes the door. 

“Joking, love,” Louis throws over his shoulder, nudging his sisters until they all start moving into the living room. 

He’s the last one left, waiting until Harry has made sure that everyone’s coats are hung up safely. 

“Should we take these to the kitchen?” he asks then, motioning at the many bags that are now cluttering up the foyer. “Cause—food. Like your mum said.” 

“Later,” Louis smiles, going for reassuring. Harry looks a little frazzled, obviously excited, but also—nervous? “Come meet my family, please.” 

Harry nods. He swallows audibly, looking at the ground, and runs his palms down the front of his jeans. He’s painfully gorgeous. Louis would very much like to kiss his face.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you,” he says, grinning. “Please don’t be. I promise they’re harmless.” 

“’M not nervous,” Harry mumbles, but his body language suggests otherwise. 

It might be because it’s Christmas, or because of the brandy he’d had earlier – Louis decides to throw caution into the wind. He’s been making this, _them_ , weird for the past few weeks for no good reason, and it’s time to put it behind him and move forward. 

He steps up to Harry, not as much taller now that he’s not wearing his boots, and wraps him up in a hug. 

Harry makes a surprised little noise, but there’s no hesitation in the way he winds his arms around Louis. His head lands on Louis’s shoulder, nose pressed again his ear, and the wispy bits of his hair tickle Louis on the cheek. 

The last time they’d hugged had felt strange, had made Louis feel like they were worlds apart, like Harry was a star and he was uselessly trying to pluck it from the sky. This time, it’s the exact opposite. 

Harry’s made himself smaller, hunching so as to fit into Louis’s arms, and there’s a little tremor going through him, wound tight as he is. Standing in the foyer in his striped socks and Christmas-themed bowling shirt, breathing into Louis’s neck like he never wants to let go, he’s never felt more real. More human. 

“You’ll be alright, yeah?” Louis says into his shoulder, feeling like it’s something that Harry needs to hear. “They’ll all love you.” 

“If you say so,” Harry mumbles. 

“I know so,” Louis says. _You’re my favourite person_ , he wants to tell Harry, and he probably will, sometime later on when he’s too tipsy to care. 

They pull away. Louis is feeling a little sheepish, smoothing down a wrinkle he’d made in Harry’s shirt instead of looking him in the eye.

“You haven’t got your cane,” is the first thing that Harry says.

Louis looks up. Harry’s eyes are brilliantly green in the light, wide and curious, and he’s biting his lip. 

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, even though it most certainly is. “I, uh—I’ve been trying to get by without it.” 

Harry beams. “How’s that going?” 

His boyish enthusiasm is infectuous, and Louis beams right back. “Really well, actually,” he says, his fingers curling in out of habit. “Though I’ve probably jinxed that now.” 

“No you haven’t,” Harry smiles, the kindest, softest little thing. “You’re just—you’re brilliant. You’ll forget you ever needed it soon, you’ll see.” 

Louis blinks some grateful tears out of his eyes, and reaches out to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. 

“Cheers,” he says, though he wants to say so much more. 

“You’re welcome, Louis." 

Louis takes a deep breath. “Thank you for taking us in,” he tells Harry. Then he leans forward, goes on his tiptoes, and kisses his cheek. 

Harry stares. 

“Come on,” Louis wraps a hand around his wrist before he has a chance to overthink, and pulls him into the living room. 

Everyone seems to have settled in okay, sitting on one of the many soft surfaces, only a little stiff. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace that Harry must have started before they came, and in the corner, reaching almost all the way to the ceiling, is an enormous pine tree.

“Harry,” Louis says, and turns around to look him in the face. “This wasn’t here yesterday.” 

Harry scratches his head, stepping from foot to foot. “I had it delivered this morning. Just—wasn’t sure if I wanted to decorate it, but now that you all are here, I was hoping you’d help.” 

“Yes we will,” Lottie pipes up immediately, her smile excited. “Oh, this is so much better than Louis’s ugly plastic tree.” 

“ _Hey_!” 

“She’s right, darling,” mum weighs in. “I didn’t want to say anything.” 

Louis turns to her, then back to Harry, his mouth hanging open. Harry’s sucked in his bottom lip, dimples prominent in his cheeks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

“Traitors, the lot of you,” Louis throws his arms up. Unsurprisingly, nobody sides with him. 

It feels exactly like being in his childhood home again. 

They do, indeed, help with decorating, right after Harry shakes everyone’s hands, charming the pants off them in the process. Louis is familiar with that magnetic pull of his, the way his eyes just catch you and never let you go again. Watching it aimed at his family is equal parts amusing and terrifying. Harry really could have anyone wrapped around his finger if he wanted to. 

He starts feeling his mum’s eyes on the back of his neck as soon as he and Fizzy dive into Harry’s enormous box of ornaments, but he decides to ignore her until they can talk about whatever this is in peace, ideally over a cuppa. 

“Can I go on the ladder?” Daisy asks, from where she’s hanging on to Harry’s back and stretching up to throw some tinsel on. 

“You cannot go on the ladder,” Louis says before mum has a chance to open her mouth. “Too dangerous.” 

“I’m twelve,” she says, deadpan, but Louis stands his ground and glares at her until she huffs and gives up. 

Harry is smiling at him, Louis notices, a soft little spark in his eye. Louis doesn’t know what it means, if it means anything at all, but he smiles back all the same, then goes back to untangling an enormous ball of fairy lights. 

He ends up being the one to go on the ladder, even as mum fusses and Harry shoots him worried looks. 

“Which one are we putting on top, then?” he asks though a mouthful of pine needles, trying to get the lights to stay. They’re shaped like snowmen, completely out of place in Harry’s posh living room, and it’s precisely why Louis is going to so much trouble hanging them up. 

“I don’t think they’ve decided yet,” says Dan, looking down at Doris and Ernest. They were the first ones to discover and open the box with the tree toppers, and then explore every one thoroughly (that is to say, with their teeth). Lottie had asked them to pick one, but Louis isn’t entirely sure they understood. 

Harry, now free from Daisy – who’s climbed off and wandered over to where Phoebe and Fizzy are picking baubles – comes over to the babies. He’d been a little sheepish for the last half hour, looking at them like one might look at animals in the zoo, and Louis unconsciously holds his breath as he watches him crouch and _smile_. 

He’s seen Harry smile before, of course, just—not like this. 

“Hi there,” Harry says, and it seems like everyone in the room has quieted, looking at him. “Would you like some help?” 

Doris opens her mouth, and the angel ornament she’d been chewing on falls out. “Hep?” 

The grin that Harry gives her damn near makes Louis cry. “That’s right, help. There’s lots of pretty things in here,” he says as he plucks a star off the top of the pile, “but Louis can only fit one on top of the tree.” 

“Lou!” Ernest shouts, banging his fists against his chubby thighs. He doesn’t seem to know where Louis is, but the mention of his name is enough to get him excited. 

“Up here, Ernie,” he says, wrapping his hands around the rungs of the ladder, trying not to fall. 

Ernie throws his head back, looking up at the tree a little too fast. Before he has can begin to topple over, Harry is there, putting a big palm on his back and propping him up. 

“Lou!” Ernest says again, laughing. “Lou up!” 

“Lou’s up,” Louis says. “Very far up. I can almost see home from here!” he puts one hand up to shield his eyes, pretending to squint out of the window. 

Harry giggles, and Ernest gives a delighted clap. It feels just as good as thousands of people cheering him on from the stands. 

“Tink!” Doris screeches suddenly, pulling veryone’s eyes to her. She’s holding a big white star, and on top of it sits a little Tinkerbell figurine. “Tink!” 

“Oh,” Harry grins. “That _is_ Tink. She used to be my favourite.” 

“Tink,” Doris smiles, kissing her small plastic head. Just about everyone in the room coos out loud. 

“You like Tink?” 

“ _Lov_ ,” Doris says importantly, hugging the ornament to her. “Lov Tink.” 

Louis might be crying a little. 

“Do you think we should put her up there, then?” Harry asks, pointing over his shoulder. “So that she can watch out for all of us?” 

“Up?” Doris asks, just making sure. 

Harry nods. “Up,” he repeats. “Up where Louis is.” 

Ernest crawls over to his sister, plopping down next to her and poking at her new discovery. Doris frowns at him a little, but lets him, training her big eyes on Harry as she contemplates something. 

“Tink up,” she decides finally, holding out the topper. Harry takes it carefully, with both hands, as if it were made of glass. 

“Ernest?” he turns to him, a smile on his face. “Can Tink go up? Are you okay with that?” 

“Up,” Ernie nods. “Ewnie up! “ and he extends his arms towards Harry, expectant. He loves being carried, unlike Doris, who gets fussy after a few minutes, and he usually gets to be whenever he asks. Louis’s entire family is just really, really bad at denying the babies anything. 

“You can’t go up there,” Harry giggles, extending a single finger to poke Ernest on the nose. “You’re a boy, not a tree topper.”

“Up!” 

“You’d have to just sit there all alone,” Harry warns him. “Just sit and look. No presents.” 

“Up,” Ernie demands. 

Harry’s face softens – he’s clearly as weak as the rest of them. “Tell you what,” he says, “let’s go see Louis and give him Tink, okay?” 

Ernest bounces in place. “Up! Lou up!” 

Harry puts the ornament on the ground. He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks up, to Louis’s mum and Dan, who have been watching the scene unfold with smiles on their faces. 

“May I?” he asks and motions to Ernie, by far the most timid Louis has ever heard him. 

Mum puts a hand on her chest, blinking rapidly. “Oh, darling. Of course you may.” 

“Thank you,” Harry beams, polite as always. “Hear that, Ernie? We’re going up.” 

Ernest gets a little too excited when Harry picks him up, waving his arms wildly and bouncing, but Harry handles him impressively well. He waits until the boy’s settled, then puts an arm securely around his back, using the other to pick up the topper.

Louis takes in the whole thing and sways on the ladder. Harry’s curled his whole body around Ernest, keeping him safe as he grins at him and pokes his tummy. His dimples seem to be permanently embedded in his cheeks, hair falling around his face in gorgeous ringlets, and he’s just— _lit up_. He looks so right and at home and comfortable with Louis’s baby brother in his arms, and this, this is too much. 

Louis feels like he’s about to fall in more ways than one. 

It’s only a few steps across the living room, and Harry crosses the distance in a few long striders, Ernest hanging on to his neck. 

They both look up when they reach the ladder. There’s nobody else in the room at that moment – just Harry and Ernest and Louis, whose heart is growing bigger by the second.

“Hey,” he grins at them, trying to pretend like the world isn’t tilting on its axis. 

“Hey,” Harry smiles, at the same time as Ernest lets out a delighted shout of “Lou!” 

“D’you want to pass him Tink?” Harry asks, bouncing Ernest in his arms to get his attention. He’s holding the topper already, and Ernie snatches it up, tiny hands wrapping around the blunt points of the star. 

“Ready when you are,” Louis says, descending a couple of steps and holding his hand out. 

Ernest’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he stretches up, but he’s too far. Before Louis can come lower, Harry’s shifting his hold, wrapping his hands firmly around Ernie’s waist and then lifting him up, not unlike Simba. 

The thought makes Louis laugh, and he has to concentrate on staying still as Ernest hands over the tree topper. Once Harry’s sure that Louis got it, he pretends to drop Ernest and then catches him, making him shriek in delight. 

“Thank you,” says Louis, and then sets out on his mission to decorate the top of the tree. He has to stand all the way up on the platform, and even then go on his tiptoes, but he manages to slide the star on and make sure that Tinkerbell is facing the room. 

His knee is throbbing a little when he climbs down, but it’s very much worth it for the delighted look on the babies’ faces. 

He finishes up the lights, with Harry’s generous help, and Fizzy and Lottie cooperate on covering the entire tree in silver tinsel. Finally, everyone grabs a few baubles and hangs them up according to Phoebe and Daisy’s instructions. They’d picked different shades of blue and green, and Louis tries his very best to be careful when he slides them onto the branches. They’re absolutely gorgeous, definitely hand-made, and exactly the kind of thing he’d expect Harry to have in the house. 

Finally, after more than an hour of very hard work and some extensive arse-staring on Louis’s part (he’s only human, and Harry is just _there_ all the time), they plug in the fairy lights. 

Louis holds his breath as Harry fusses with the socket – thinks of all the disasters that could happen, like a shorting out or one of the little bulbs being faulty and exploding the whole thing, ruining this Christmas for good. He’s biting down on his pointer finger, antsy, but of course, _of course_ , he needn’t have worried.

The tree lights up gorgeously, spots of light shining through the needles and the tinsel, glinting off all the gold and silver in the room, spinning and stretching and blinking through the glass baubles. It’s absolutely stunning, and Louis has to blink a few times to realise that they did this, all of them, together. His plastic sham of a tree could never compare. 

“Oh, it’s so lovely,” mum says, coming up to Louis from behind and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Well done, darlings.” 

“Mum,” Louis grumbles, but he steps back into her embrace anyway, feeling like a little boy again. 

After that, it’s finally time for food, and Louis realises he’s been hungry for hours. Harry tries to usher them all into the dining hall, insisting that he’s the host and will take care of it himself, but both Louis and his mum force their way into the kitchen and refuse to leave. 

“You’re not going to win,” Louis whispers to him as they watch Jay flitting about, putting away ingredients for tomorrow as if she’s lived here all her life. “She’s very stubborn, and I’ve inherited it, so.” 

“But you’re already stressed out,” Harry whines, arms folded across his chest. He looks absolutely ridiculous in the best way, muscles bulging under his patterned shirt and a pout on his lips. Louis might wants to kiss it away, just a little. “I just want to help.”

“You’ve already helped, Harry,” Louis tells him, and reaches out to squeeze his biceps. “We’d probably be freezing our arses off at my flat if it weren’t for you.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry’s pout stretches into a smile, soft but there. “I—it really is. I would’ve just fed the horses and gone to bed, but this is so much better.” 

Louis wants to go in for another hug, if he’s honest with himself. Harry looks much perkier than he’d sounded on the phone earlier, has been so genuine with wanting to help and trying to answer every single question that Louis’s sisters posed him. It’s painfully obvious how much he enjoys being around people, but still he’s all alone, even on Christmas, and Louis—Louis just doesn’t think that’s fair. 

He grimaces instead of voicing his thoughts, and pats the wet patch that Ernie has drooled into Harry’s collar. 

“Sorry about the babies,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. “I forgot to mention them. On the phone, I mean.” 

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry looks him in the eye, stern. “I love the babies. Been thinking of stealing them before you go home, actually.” 

“It’s very difficult to not love them,” Louis agrees. “They’re just about the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Harry goes soft, the same way he was when he was crouching to talk to Ernest. “You like kids, then?” 

Louis blinks. “Of _course_. I can’t not, growing up with all this around.” 

“Yeah,” Harry nods, looking thoughtful. “I—that’s really nice. That you like them.” 

There’s still a softness about him, but it’s bleeding into vulnerability. He looks so, so small. 

“You okay?” Louis asks, quietly so mum doesn’t hear. 

Harry blinks. It takes him a second to realise what Louis said, and the strange openness disappears from his face. “I’m good,” he says, with a barely convincing smile. “Just—got caught up daydreaming, sorry. It’s just that I love kids. Can’t wait to have my own someday.” 

Something is off about him, Louis is sure. There’s a trembly little note to his voice, and he’s made himself small against the wall, but he clearly doesn’t want to give anything up. 

Looking at him, Louis can’t help imagining what that would be like – Harry and children, his _own_ children, and a place for Louis in their lives—

Louis coughs, then smiles, chasing the thoughts away. There’s time for that (no there isn’t), and time for him to hug Harry, later. Now there’s mum, trying to finish up a dinner for ten and needing all the help she can get. 

“Catch you later,” he says, touching Harry’s hip. He moves to the cupboards, vaguely familiar with their contents, and starts pulling out the china that looks sturdiest, then the silverware. 

There are happy voices carrying in from the dining room, and a heavy, comfortable warmth has settled in Louis’s bones. Amongst the glistening crystal glasses and shiny marble countertops, Harry’s quiet _later_ sounds like a promise. 

He disappears after, and reappears with several dusty bottles of wine, not taking no for an answer as he uncorks them and carries them to the dining hall. Louis doesn’t see him again until it’s time to eat.

They sit down, all ten of them around Harry’s enormous table. They haven’t even filled their plates when mum bangs her fork against her glass, asking for silence. Harry looks at her confused, and so does Louis, just for a split second, until it clicks. 

“Mum, _no_.” 

“Shush,” she grins. She’s never been one to pass up a chance to goodnaturedly embarrass her children. “First of all, I’d like to say thank you to our lovely host,” he tips her glass in Harry’s direction. He looks into his plate, adorably sheepish. 

“It’s my pleasure,” he says. “Anytime.” 

Jay smiles at him, then continues. “Secondly, as we all know, today is a very special day.” 

Louis has a hand over his face, trying to become one with his chair. Maybe if he slid under the table he could crawl—

“Happy birthday to my lovely firstborn. Please look at your mother when she’s trying to toast you.” 

He looks around the table through his fingers. The babies are not paying him any mind, but everyone else is holding on to the stems of their glasses, waiting for him to stop being a child. 

Everyone except Harry, that is. He’s dropped the knife he’d been playing with, and he’s staring openly, his mouth ajar and eyes bugging out of his head. Right. Louis—hadn’t exactly told him that he’s turning twenty-four this Christmas Eve. 

He takes a deep breath, willing himself through this, and drops his hands. 

“Thank you,” mum smiles. “Now, as I was saying, happy birthday. You’ve been making me proud for many, many years, and here’s to many more to come.” 

Louis blinks back what definitely aren’t tears. His last birthday was spent drowning in self-pity, even as everyone around him tried to make him feel better, but this year—this year is different. He’s still here, and that alone is an accomplishment. 

He raises his own glass in mum’s direction, not trusting himself to speak. Harry’s eyes are boring into him, he can tell, but he decides to put off that conversation until after dinner. 

“Now,” says mum after they all drink to Louis’s health and happiness and everything else, “we’re going to sing Happy Birthday, and I want to hear everyone.” 

Louis’s sisters all look tortured, mumbling the words, but mum and Dan and—Harry? carry the song, singing at an obnoxious volume. The babies even stop their clumsy game of patty patty and look around with wide eyes. 

“Happy birthday to you!” the last line fades out, and Louis doesn’t really know what to do with his face other than smile. 

“You’ll get your present tomorrow,” mum tells him, an apologetic look already on her face, “I haven’t had time to wrap it yet.” 

“It’s from all of us,” Daisy pipes up, glaring a little. 

“It’s from all of us,” mum repeats, patting her hand. “Now, I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m starving.” 

They all mumble in agreement, and various bowls and platters start making their way around the table. Louis leans back, relaxed and warm and happy in the presence of his family, and lets himself smile without a worry. His eyes keep wandering to Harry over and over, to his rosy face and comfortable grin, his big hands as he passes the salmon, the expensive glint of his rings. He catches Louis a few times, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just silently looks back. 

All in all, it’s the kind of Christmas Louis could get used to.

*

Mum catches him just before midnight, when the rest of the house is already asleep and the presents are stashed under the tree. Louis walks down from the room he’d picked – right next to Harry’s, which is definitely a coincidence – to get a cup of tea before he goes to bed, but she’s already there, leaning back in her chair with two steaming cups in front of her.

Louis can’t tell whether he’s scared or relieved. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” she says, adopting her best movie villain voice, which isn’t very good. It does put Louis at ease, though, reminds him that it’s just _mum_ , one of his best friends in the entire world, the person he’s shared everything with since before he can remember. 

“Hi,” he sighs, and slumps into the chair next to her. He’s tired. “What do you want to know?” 

She laughs, pushing one of the cups towards him. The colour is just right, exactly the way he likes it, but that shouldn’t be surprising. 

“Save that tone, young man,” she says. “I’m your mum, I’m entitled to know.” 

“Just tell me,” he replies, sipping. It mellows him right out, smooths away the pinpricks of chill in his fingers. “There’s—been a lot of things.” 

“Your cane is gone,” she says, turning her whole body to him. “And I haven’t seen you limp.” 

Louis snorts. “I definitely limp. Just very good at hiding it.” 

She stays silent, just watching. Louis knows she’s waiting for him to give her an actual answer. 

“The cane’s at home,” he says. “I’ve been doing okay without it, I think.”

“Have you talked to Niall?” 

He shakes his head. “He always says I can do whatever I want, as long as my leg feels right.” 

“Does it?” 

“I think so,” he says, moving it around. His foot bumps into a table leg, jolting his ankle, and the impact reverberates through his shin, but it’s—normal. It’s the sharp, quick, easily gone kind of pain, not the agony he used to be in. “I—I don’t really know. I don’t like thinking about it.” 

He sets his eyes on the tabletop, sliding over the shiny surface. There are a few spots where the varnish has worn off, a circle left by a too-hot plate, a stain of something that’s probably there from earlier today. 

“Sweetheart,” mum says, running a soothing hand through his hair. “Why not?” 

He shrugs. He likes to pretend he hasn’t admitted this to himself, on one of his many sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling and counting the shadows. 

“Because it’d make me want to race again.”

Silence. He’s not surprised, not in the slightest. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, just for good measure, looking out of the window and giving her time. The horses are there, spread out on the backdrop of the forest like uneven little stars. Louis is sure he could pick out Marshmallow, if he tried really hard. 

“None of that,” mum says, finally. “Don’t apologise.”

“You said you’d lose your mind if you ever saw me on a horse again.” 

She sighs. It’s probably not fair of Louis, bringing this up, not when it’s something that wasn’t even meant for him, overheard while he was supposed to be unconscious in his hospital bed. 

Still, it’s been weighing on him, all these months. Mum had always supported him in everything he did, went out of her way to make sure all his dreams came true, and hearing her say that – it had stung. Had made Louis want to fall back into his coma and not wake up for another week. 

“I shouldn’t have,” she says. He dares to look at her, feeling unsettled and shaky, and the expression on her face instantly adds guilt to the mix. “I shouldn’t have said that, Louis. I’m your mum, and I worry about you, but that wasn’t—you were never supposed to hear. I was hoping I could just…quietly regret it.” 

Louis shakes his head and reaches for her hand, needing to reassure her. “You were right,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as weak as he feels. “You were right to say it. I almost died, and for what?” 

“You love racing, Lou” she interrupts before he can go any further. “You’ve been heartbroken since it happened, don’t you think I can see that?” 

Louis, to his horror, feels tears pushing their way into his eyes. His heart thuds heavily, painfully in his chest. 

“Are you sure there’s no chance…?” 

“ _No_ ,” he says, much harsher than he’d intended. His voice has gone thick, throat clogging. “You heard the doctor as well as I did. The damage is too extensive, and I’ll be lucky if I ever walk again.” 

“But you are, love,” she says. “You are walking. You’ve been walking for months.” 

Louis shuts his eyes, the single lamp above the table suddenly much too bright. It’s been swirling in his head for months, this whole mess, a storm with no beginning and no end in sight. 

Mum’s right – he _is_ heartbroken. He has been, and it doesn’t seem to want to go away. _Make peace with it_ , Niall had suggested during their first ever session, when Louis’s bones had felt foreign inside his own body. _It’s like somebody dying. You’ve got to accept the loss and move on._

 __Louis doesn’t want to, though. He never did.

“I guess you’re right,” he says, staring at the floor, his own socked feet. “I guess—yeah.” 

She pets his hair again, tucking the longest strand of his fringe behind his ear. “You should give it a try. Just get on a horse.” 

“That’s dangerous,” he points out, the corner of his lips quirking. The heaviness in his chest begins to subside. “I could get bucked. It could hurt so bad I’ll get a cramp, and I won’t be able to get off.” 

“I didn’t mean _alone_ , you numpty. Take Liam with you.”

“He won’t let me,” Louis says immediately, knowing he’s right like he knows the sky is blue. “He’d never—he’d have a coronary.” 

“He’s a good boy,” mum says, so fond Louis feels a little offended. “But he’s got to let you make your own decisions, and for that matter, so do I. You’re the only one who knows what you want, and how much you want it.” 

Louis looks at her. “You won’t—you won’t be scared?” 

“Sweetheart, of course I’ll be scared,” she says, cupping his cheek in her palm. It’s warm, familiar, worn with time but still, always, the same. “I’ve been scared since you told me you were moving to the city. But you’re only my little bird until you learn how to fly on your own, and you’ve done a wonderful job of that.” 

Louis sniffles. “Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t feel like he’s done particularly well, as evidenced by the current state of his life, but it’s still nice to hear, and warms his up better than any tea could. “I love you.” 

She pulls him into a hug, leaning over the empty space between their chairs. “I love you too, Lou.”

“You really think I should try?” 

She nods, her hair tickling against his neck. “I think you should do what makes you happy.” 

“Alright,” Louis says, trying to settle into this. He’s going to—he might— _God_. “Okay.” 

“Good,” she says, and pulls away with a kiss to his forehead. “The next thing I want to know about is Harry.” 

That startles a laugh out of Louis, and he puts a quick hand over his mouth lest he wake someone up. “You can’t just _say that_ ,” he whispers, fighting off giggles. “This is his house.” 

“That’s exactly why I want to know,” she grins, sipping her tea primly. “A boy that young with a house this big is quite a catch.” 

Louis’s earlier groom seems to evaporate from one second to the next, his eyes drying, leaving him staring at his mum like she’s grown an extra head. Absurd laughter is bubbling in his throat, just waiting until he gives it voice. 

“What on _Earth_ are you insinuating?” he asks, slipping into his favourite character. 

Mum laughs. “You know very well,” she says. “I’ve got a working pair of eyes, you know. I saw you squirming on that ladder.” 

“I was not squirming,” Louis says, deadpan, but he can’t lie to his mum and they both know it. He’d been bloody embarrassing, reduced to a blushing teenager at the sight of Harry with babies. 

“I thought we had the _what to do when I like someone_ talk when you were in sixth form.” 

Louis’s face heats up at the memory. “Mum, oh my God. I’ve been trying to forget that.” 

It had been one hell of a talk – extremely thorough in ways that gave Louis nightmares for weeks after. He never, _ever_ wants to know how his mum learned some of those things. 

“Seems like you have,” she raises an eyebrow. “You’re proper moony over him, love, and he seems to be the same.”

“Mum. Please.” 

“I’m just saying, love,” she smiles her mum smile, the one that always makes her look like she knows something that Louis doesn’t. “I wouldn’t mind having a handsome, rich, kind son-in-law.” 

“I can’t marry myself,” Louis replies, already ducking the swat to his head that he knows is coming. He leans back in his chair, relaxed now, and watches as the stars outside flicker. 

It takes them ages to go to bed, talking about anything and everything, Lottie’s new boyfriend and the older twins’ grades and Ernest’s stubbornly crooked tooth. Louis thinks there might be light on the horizon when they finally say goodbye on top of the stairs, and his sisters will probably wake them up in about an hour to come look at the presents, but he can’t say he cares very much.

He feels lighter than he has in months.

*

December 25th, seven thirty in the morning. Louis wakes up feeling very much not rested to a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says, just loud enough to be heard as he tries to get his voice to work. 

He doesn’t really give any thought to who might be waiting behind the door – it’s Christmas Day, for Pete’s sake, and he has six younger siblings, four of whom are very excited for presents, even if they try to act aloof. He just wraps himself in the duvet, trying to fight off the morning chill, and watches expectantly as the door handle lowers. 

And in comes—Harry. 

Louis squeaks out of sheer surprise, scrambling to pull the duvet tighter around himself. 

Harry’s—oh, for the love of _God_ , he’s absolutely stunning, even in this early morning half-light and wearing what have to be pyjamas. His hair looks like a nest, the loose ends of it knotted, the rest piled haphazardly on top of his head, but it still works, makes his face look a little less angular, a little softer. He’s hunched into himself, blinking slowly, eyes bleary and breathtakingly green. All Louis wants is to lift the duvet, invite him into bed, and curl around him. 

He had wished, a few weeks ago, to see what Harry looks like in the morning. He’d very much like to punch past him in the face now. 

“Hi,” Harry says, rumbly and deep. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, clearly doing his best to be quiet. 

“Hi,” Louis whispers, because his normal voice seems a bit too loud. Then, because he can’t help himself: “Are you Santa?” 

Harry giggles, the skin around his eyes gathering into sleepy little pouches. He runs a hand through his hair, and his shit rides up, unveiling a little sliver of skin down by his waistband. 

Louis doesn’t look. 

“A little bit,” he says, and pads over to Louis’s bed. He lingers there, looking down at Louis. 

“Sit down,” Louis pats the mattress, shuffling to the side to give Harry more space. He’s very much tangled in the duvet by now, trapped, but it’s probably a good thing – at least he can’t just reach out and touch Harry all over before his brain comes fully online. 

Harry smiles and climbs into the bed. They’re suddenly so, so close, the king size feeling like it’s shrunk in half. Harry’s body heat radiates even through the blankets, wraps around Louis all soothing and lovely. 

Also, Harry’s barefoot. It’s unfairly adorable. 

“What’s up, then?” Louis asks, leaning forward. It’s only now that he notices Harry’s got something tucked under his arm. 

“Sorry for waking you up,” Harry says, green eyes pronounced. There’s a softness about him, and it seems to be more than just the fact that he’s barely awake. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure when to give you this, but I figured since it was your birthday yesterday. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way,” he says, but he’s grinning. 

Louis rubs a hand over his forehead. _Present_ , an excited, childish little voice in his head says. _Present. Harry got you a present_. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is, really. Harry’s face from yesterday is still fresh in his memory. “It just—it never really came up, did it?” 

“You could’ve told me you were born on bloody _Christmas Eve_!” 

He looks so indignant, and Louis cracks up against his will. He tries to stifle it in his arm, but it seems that the early hour has removed his usual restrictions, and he keeps laughing even when Harry cocks his head at him, a mixture of curious and confused.

“Sorry,” he apolgises as soon as he catches his breath. “Sorry, that was. Um. You were talking about giving me something?” 

Harry sees right through him, judging by his unimpressed raised eyebrow, but he plays along. 

The thing under his arm turns out to be a soft, shapeless lump. It’s expertly wrapped though, neatly folded edges sealed with tape, and when Harry hands it over, Louis feels unexpectedly touched. 

“It’s not—I don’t think it’s enough to cover both Christmas _and_ your birthday, but I didn’t know, so…maybe next time.” 

_Next time_ , his heart echoes, sending the words ricocheting around his chest with every beat. _Next time next time next time_. 

“Harry,” Louis says, “thank you. I—you didn’t have to get me anything at all.” 

Harry frowns, like such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Of course I did. You’ve been doing such a good job with Marshmallow.” 

Louis deflates a little, though he hadn’t noticed inflating in the first place. “Did you get Liam a present, too?” 

Harry makes a face. “Uh, no. Not really. I gave him a Christmas bonus, does that count?” 

A Christmas bonus. Of course, of course Harry would. 

“I’m sure he’s not complaining,” Louis smiles, reassuring. Liam hadn’t mentioned this, and he makes a mental note to grill him about it at the earliest opportunity. 

He tears into the paper then, a little too eager. He has no idea what to expect. 

“Just, um,” Harry starts, and Louis looks up at him, “you don’t have to, like, pretend. If you don’t like them.” 

He looks crestfallen at the very possibility, even though he’s trying to hide it, and Louis can’t help himself when he reaches out and wraps a hand around Harry’s wrist. 

“I’m going to like them. Whatever ‘them’ means. I promise.” 

Harry’s mouth quirks, left dimple digging into his cheek. “You can’t know that without opening it.” 

“Can so,” Louis smiles back. He can feel Harry’s pulse against his own palm, a slow, steady _thud-thud-thud_. “It’s from you.” 

The air in the room changes, suddenly heavy in Louis’s lungs. He pays it no mind, breathes through it as he lets go of Harry and starts undoing the tape. The paper gives easily, like it knows how eager he is even though he’s trying not to show it.

Louis touches—a plastic bag. He blinks in surprise.

“Sorry about that,” says Harry. “I was hoping they’d send them over in a nice box or something, but I guess I was expecting too—Louis?” 

He reaches out in concern, because Louis is sitting stock still, clutching the parcel in his hands. He _knows_ what this is. 

He tears at the plastic, ripping it without concern, to get his hands on the material underneath. It’s two-toned, both gorgeous dark blues. Touching it takes Louis back to his bug boy days, when he’d spend the day mucking out the stalls and get to ride in the evenings before the horses were fed dinner. It’s—so soft, and God, Louis is about to cry. 

“These are breeches,” he says, barely getting the words out. He doesn’t look up. “You got me breeches.” 

There are too many emotions, too many things squeezing at his heart. He’d barely accepted the thought of getting back on a horse yesterday, but Harry must have gotten these a while ago. He must have known, somehow, that Louis would end up here. 

Harry clears his throat. He sounds shaky when he speaks, but Louis doesn’t trust himself to look up. “I, uh—I asked Liam for your measurements. I know that’s really creepy, but he said he still had them on file, and. Yeah. I hope the material’s okay?”

Louis chokes on a laugh, and a few tears shake loose, rolling down his nose. The _material_. 

He grabs the waistband and unfolds the breeches, stretches them out until they’re lying next to him on the duvet. They’re full seat, so gorgeously cut in the back, so well-made, and the seat is—

“Deerskin,” he says, just barely touching. He’s a little afraid that all this might be an apparition, or a strange dream brought on by all the food he’d eaten yesterday. “This is deerskin.” 

He looks at Harry out of the corner of his eye, and just catches him nodding. “And French terry. They’re supposed to be the stretchiest? ‘Cause the people on all the forums, they said these grip better than the knee patch kind, but the suede can be really stiff—“ 

“Forums,” Louis repeats, stroking the fabric over and over. “You went on forums?” 

There’s a lump in his throat so big he can barely swallow. Harry’s too much, so wholly, entirely too much. 

Louis looks him in the eye, unashamed of his wet cheeks. It feels like they’re both cracking themselves open in different ways, here on this bed, and Louis is not afraid to show how vulnerable he feels. He could probably fall right apart if a breeze came through the window, but it doesn’t matter; this is worth it. 

Harry, sitting criss cross applesauce with his hands in his lap, shrugs. “That’s what the Internet is for. I don’t know much about these things.” 

Louis shakes his head. What is there to say? How could he possibly let Harry know that this, he, feels like everything?

“You should, um,” Harry starts, scratching his nose, “you should look inside.” 

He hasn’t even properly looked over the outside yet, but he listens immediately, only a little confused.

“What’s inside?” he asks, running his fingers over the waistband, the inner seam. “Are there more presents?” 

Harry giggles, putting a hand on Louis’s forearm. Louis, in an admirable show of strength, doesn’t do anything embarrassing. 

“There’s—here,” he says, slow, and then equally slowly takes Louis’s arm and moves it further into the left leg of the breeches, down into the knee. It’s kind of absurd, the two of them reaching into a pair of trousers, but Louis’s got Harry’s warmth pressed to his side, and his big, big hand sliding towards his wrist. He’s good. “Here, got it.” 

Louis gets his hand on whatever Harry’s touching, and it takes him less that two seconds to burst into tears again. 

It’s the usual tough fabric, yes, reinforced right where the leg is supposed to bend, but there’s something else, silkier.

“Is that what I think it is?” 

Harry’s pulled away, but Louis thinks he can feel his amused puff of breath on the back of his neck. “Depends,” he says. “What do you think it is?” 

Louis splays his fingers, touching over and over. He takes a breath, then another one. “A knee brace?” 

He can’t quite breathe when he thinks about it, about the enormity of—of everything. 

“That’s right,” Harry grins, and shuffles away when Louis straightens up (Louis wishes he would stay). “There’s a zipper,” he says, and points to a small flap on the side of the leg. Louis hadn’t even noticed. “You couldn’t put it on otherwise. But it’s not really—I talked to my orthopedist, and he said that nothing can _really_ support your knee while riding, and you couldn’t move the way you need to with a real brace, so. It’s just some knit and padding, I found this firm online that has them patented and they made me a custom one. Said it’s just enough to hold everything together, it won’t make your knee weaker when you—if you ever decide to ride again.” 

His features become blurrier as he speaks. It takes Louis a long while to realise it’s because he’s got tears welling up in his eyes that haven’t had time to fall. 

Harry had really just—done all that. Had a custom brace made, and had it sewn into a custom pair of breeches, all for Louis, who can barely walk on a good day; and he has the audacity to be shy about it, like he hasn’t just made the world tilt on its axis, like he hasn’t changed absolutely _everything_. 

Louis’s heart thuds heavily, painfully, against his ribs. This is it, he thinks, his time is up. This is where he admits he’d be all Harry’s in a second, if he only asked.

He’s got this wonderful boy in his bed, with his stunning eyes and his gorgeous heart, looking at Louis like’s he’s something, someone, special. He wants this to be every single morning of his life, from now on until bloody forever. 

“Thank you,” he remembers to say. The air burns in his nose, his lungs, thick like smoke. “Harry, thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.” 

Harry looks thoughtful now, and so young, hair sticking up every which way. Without a word, he reaches out – Louis thinks he might be going for his wrist again, maybe to show him yet another wonderful thing he’s thought up, but no. _No_. 

His fingers land, soft, on Louis’s face, right where the tears are pooling on his cheek. 

“Please don’t cry,” he says, slow, quiet, and wipes them away. 

Louis blinks. His lashes brush Harry’s hand, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Can’t help it,” he says, biting his lip, a little bubble of laughter making its way through all the tightness in his chest. This is all kinds of wonderful, and all kinds of absurd. “You’re just—you’re too lovely.” 

A bright flush appears on Harry’s neck, stealing into his cheeks and pinking them up. He looks a right cherub, just then. 

“Stop it,” he chuckles, and pulls his hand back. The morning air hits cold against Louis’s cheek, very much like a slap, like Liam trying to get him to stay awake in the cab after a long night out. This is spinning out of control. Louis is hurtling headlong into something he hasn’t felt in years. 

“You are,” he insists, still, reluctant to think real life thoughts. Maybe they could stay here forever, just the two of them, a reality separate from the world outside, where Louis gets to kiss that beautiful blush. “You’ve really—wait. Wait, I almost forgot.” 

He has. He’d almost left it behind in yesterday’s whirlwind move from his place to Harry’s, and only remembered to grab it at the last second, but he has it. 

He reaches under the bed, where he’d stashed it yesterday, going back and forth deciding whether to put it under the tree. He’d decided to go with no, because this, him and Harry – it feels a little bit too close to his heart. If he gave him something in front of his family, there would be questions from all sides, and he’s not ready for those. 

“Here,” he says, patting the little tube. He’s tried to cover the logo with a big ugly bow, but it’s easy enough to tell what it is. He feels a little embarrassed now, after Harry gifted him with more than he could ever know. There is no going back, though. “I’m really shit at wrapping, sorry.” 

He holds the tube out, waiting for Harry to take it.

Harry’s face is surprised, maybe even shocked. “For me?” he asks, in awe as he reaches out. 

“Of course,” Louis grins. “It’s the least I could do.” 

He watches the light play across Harry’s knuckles, so soft and lovely. The air has thinned, finally finding its way back into Louis’s body, and he dares relax a little while Harry opens the tube and pulls out a scarf. 

Because that’s what Louis got him for Christmas. Christ, he’s become a grandpa. 

“Oh my,” Harry says, eyes wide as the roll of fabric falls, spilling across his lap and the bed. 

Louis loved it the second he saw it. It’s more blue than green, teetering between the two depending on the light, but he’d picked it because it reminded him of Harry’s eyes, and he can already tell that it’ll complement them perfectly. The floral pattern is just the cherry on top of the cake, intricate but lovely, just like its new owner. 

“It’s not as fancy as yours was,” Louis apologises, eyes fixed on Harry’s hands as they stroke the folds of the scarf. “They were fresh out of alpaca on Regent Street.” 

Harry laughs, but it lacks the usual amused bite. “I can’t believe—I told you it was okay.” 

“I know,” Louis replies. “I know, but I wanted…well. I’m not sure what I wanted.” 

“It’s gorgeous,” Harry says, shaking his head a little. “It’s—I love it, so much. _Thank you_.” 

He looks it, too, his eyes wide and round and absolutely disarming. Louis feels that look all the way in his heart. 

“You’re welcome, love,” he smiles, reaches out to pat Harry’s knee. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, Lou,” Harry smiles right back, and wastes no time in wrapping the scarf around his neck. It looks ridiculous with his silky pyjama shirt, but he’s so adorable Louis wants to go for his phone and take a picture. Maybe upload it to Instagram later, and caption it with something proper cheesy.

He goes for a hug instead. 

It should be somewhat familiar by now, holding Harry and being held in return, but Louis is always fascinated all anew. There are places where Harry is soft, and places where he isn’t; places that Louis has touched before, and ones that are out of his reach; there’s Harry’s breathing, different each time, now sleepy-deep and even. Louis hooks his chin over his shoulder and closes his eyes. 

There’s so much to think about, once he gets a moment alone, but now—now Harry’s here, and nothing else matters.

*

*

“No, Liam.”

“Yes, Louis. Get your arse downstairs, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 

“I told you I’m not going! It’s _New Year’s Eve_.” 

“And you had plans?” Liam scoffs. Louis burrows deeper under the duvet, offended. “It’s not the eve yet, it’s nine in the morning. I wanna try jumps today, come _on_.” 

That, despite Louis’s best efforts, gets his attention. “Jumps?” 

He sits up, duvet pooling around his waist, and feels more awake than he should be at this day and hour. His heart kicks up a notch. This is bloody _exciting_. 

“I reckon she’s ready,” Liam shrugs – Louis can tell, even over the phone. “Plus, you know. It’s the last day of the year, feels like a good time to start something new.” 

Louis tilts his head, slowly standing up and shivering in the frigid morning air. “It does?” 

Liam huffs. “Just—get dressed.” 

Louis does. He whines a bit more though, mostly about not getting to eat, which makes Liam feel so guilty he stops by Mickey D’s on the way. Two egg McMuffins do not a balanced breakfast make, but they’re still warm when Louis slides into the car, and that’s better than anything he could’ve cooked up himself. 

The small bit of guilt he feels when he bites into the bun is entirely misplaced. He’s on an indefinite leave from riding, and from his bloody diet. 

Except—there’s that thing. That one thing he’s been thinking about, and the reason he’d grabbed his brand new breeches before he left. He _wants_ this; now that the fire’s been woken up again, now that he’s let himself think about it, imagine it – nothing else exists. 

They arrive at Harry’s just after ten, to an empty pasture and a quiet house. There’s nothing unusual about that, but today, the eerie silence pulls at Louis’s ears. It makes him fidgety as they walk up from the parking lot and straight into the tack room, makes him glare at Liam a little sharper than he normally would when he gets an armful of saddle without warning. 

He could really do it. He could do it _today,_ and nobody would see. 

The horses have hidden away at the very edge of the pasture, difficult to find, and Louis decides to wait downhill while Liam goes up to fetch their horse. 

Bubble and Tashie find him just as he sits down in the cold grass, his knee creaking a bit too much. They’re playing, kicking out their feet and jogging by on their way to someplace else, but they both stop in their tracks when they notice Louis. 

“Hello,” he waves at them, already expecting it when they shoot out of their place like rockets and immediately go for his pockets. 

“No,” he tries to resist, already laughing as he pushes Bubble’s clumsy head away. “I don’t have anything!” 

He’s lying, and they know that. He’s always got sugar cubes lying about in his pockets, even when he’s not planning on being around horses. 

Tashie manages to bite down on his collar and pull, just a little tug, and Bubble forces her head under his armpit, her mane right in his nose. 

“Come _on_ ,” he shrieks, laughing as Tashie’s warm breath tickles his ear. “Bullies, the two of you. No manners to speak of. If you want a treat, at least ask for it.” 

They’re not listening, of course, too busy having fun. Louis sighs, and reaches into his pocket with the hand that isn’t currently being licked. 

“I can’t keep doing this, you know,” he says conversationally, rolling a couple of cubes into his palm. “Harry will have my bloody head.” 

Bubble neighs, a young, excited sound that makes Louis’s heart melt. “Here,” he says before he changes his mind, holding out first one cube then the other, one for each of them. They gobble them up happily, rubbing against Louis like extremely overgrown cats. 

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning back on his arms. “Now that I fed you, I need some advice.” 

Tashie is poking at he ground, digging up dirt with her hoof, clearly not understanding or caring about what he has to say. Maybe that’s exactly what Louis needs. 

“I’ve been thinking about riding again,” he says. “I really want to, but I—I think I’m scared.” 

As soon as the words come out, he feels as if a weight has been lifted right off his chest. The fillies continue to ignore him, but he doesn’t care, because he’s just realised—he’s scared. Good God, he’s absolutely scared shitless. It’s not excitement that makes his hand shake when he thinks about riding, it’s not just apprehension that makes his knees weak at the thought; it’s fear. 

The last time he was in the saddle, it gave out on him. He’d felt safe and sound one second, secure even on the back of a horse because he knew how to keep himself there, but what he did wasn’t enough. He’d lost everything he knew because of a bloody _strap_ – who’s to say it couldn’t happen again? 

“Hey, Bubble,” he reaches out and pats her on the neck. “Should I try?” 

She gives him a look. If she experienced human emotion and had a human thought process, Louis is sure she would be implying that he ought to first talk about it to his physiotherapist. 

“I know,” he mumbles, thinking of Niall who’s probably already drunk and celebrating with his friends. His mobile has been itching in his pocket for days, begging him to get it out and call to ask how bad of an idea this is, but he’s scared of that, too. Niall could give him a flat-out no, and Louis is not ready to go against that. 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could talk to Liam about this; just remove the suffering that his fall had caused them both, remove Liam’s incessant worry, and ask him, as Louis’s best friend, if Louis should do what his heart wants. 

As if summoned by Louis’s thoughts, Liam stomps back down the hill, breaking twigs and kicking rocks and making a commotion. Tashie and Bubble pick themselves up when they hear him, and jog off without so much as a glance. 

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles bitterly, but he finds himself smiling. 

“What are you sitting on the ground for?” Liam stops right above him, looking down with his brows furrowed. He’s holding Marshmallow’s halter and lead in his hand – she’s following him on her own. “You’re going to get a cold.” 

“You’re such a mother,” Louis replies, grinning. “I’m twenty-four. I can nurse myself out of a cold.” 

“You can _not_ ,” Liam says, extending a hand to help Louis up. “You lie in bed and while all day. And call me every ten minutes to ask when I’m bringing over soup.” 

“That’s a compliment, Liam. Your chicken noodle is the only thing that makes me feel better when I’m ill. You should be honoured.” 

“You made me come over at four in the morning.” 

“That was one time,” Louis defends himself, patting Marshmallow’s flank as they make their way to the riding hall. “And I didn’t make you do anything.” 

He’s not lying, either – it had been a very bad flu, that time, brought on by his first time at the big races, sharing small spaces with a lot of people. His fever had been so bad he couldn’t sleep, so he’d decided to complain to Liam, who was there within twenty minutes with soup and a thermometer and seven different kinds of pills. 

“Sure you didn’t,” Liam mumbles, stopping as they reach the fence. Marshmallow stops right along with him, relaxed as he slips her halter on, and Louis automatically moves forward to open the gate for them. 

Liam’s grand jumping plan, apparently, consists of four sets of cavaletti and a questionable-looking oxer.

“It’s all Harry had,” Liam defends himself as he drags the rails around, Louis and Marshmallow both watching from the side. “We ordered some ages ago, but with Christmas and all, they haven’t really had time to get here.”

Louis hadn’t known about this. He doesn’t really need to, of course, Liam’s the one in charge of training, but the thought is—strange. Liam and Harry spend time together when Louis isn’t there. Liam and Harry spend time together when Louis isn’t there. Liam and Harry—

“Shit,” Liam shouts, holding something that probably used to be a standard, but is now two separate pieces of wood. “Shit.” 

“What happened?” 

“Fell apart,” Liam throws over his shoulder, crossing the planks like that’ll magically glue them back together. “I’ve got to go find another one. Or a hammer and nails, or something.” 

“I can go,” Louis offers. “You warm her up.” 

“No,” Liam shakes his head, zipping up his jacket. “You stay. If you’d please tack her up for me, and walk her around for a bit, yeah? I’ll be right back.” 

He jogs right out the door – Louis has no time to protest. 

“Well,” he shrugs. “I guess it’s just you and me then, babe.” 

She butts her forehead into his back, sending him stumbling. He only just manages to keep his balance, and turns around to glare at her, but he can’t bring himself to be even a little bit mad. She’s too lovely. 

“Let’s get you dressed then,” he says, pulling her to the rail. She holds perfectly still for him as always, and he makes quick work of the pad, then the saddle, then the bridle. 

Liam had grabbed boots, too, though Louis isn’t sure why – even if Marshmallow turns out to be a disastrous jumper, the single oxer they have would barely be challenging for a pony. There is no way she’s going to hit the rails.

“He’s the trainer though, isn’t he,” Louis tells her, mostly mumbling to himself, and bends down to faster the straps. It’s been ages since he’s done this last, with Tic Tac way back when. The stablehand in charge always strapped his boots on too tight, and Simon had done nothing even after Louis’s numerous complaints, so he’d taken it into his own hands. 

He finishes up, then straightens. His knee creaks a little, and his back cracks, but he’s not in pain. Thank God for small victories. 

“Come on then,” he says, grabbing the reins. “Payno ordered some walking.” 

And he turns, starts going and expects her to follow the way she always does, the way they trained her to over the past few months, but she—doesn’t. She stands rooted in place, and Louis only finds out when the rein goes taut in his hand. 

He turns around, surprised. “Marshmallow?” he asks, immediately checking on her ears, but they’re drooping forward and relaxed as usual. “What happened?” 

She stands, still, not giving any indication that she’s agitated or in pain. Louis checks her mouth, concerned he may have pinched something with the bit, then makes sure the skin under her girth hasn’t caught somewhere, but he finds nothing. 

“What is it?” he asks, petting her nose. “What?” 

She huffs. Louis tries pulling her forward again, ahead of her then shoulder to shoulder, even pushes on her flank with one hand, but she resists. Keeps standing, completely at ease, yet leaving Louis increasingly puzzled. 

She’s never done this before, never shown so much as an indication of disobeying if she received a clear command. 

“Come on, love. We’ve got to get you warmed up,” he says, quiet and friendly, trying to coax her into moving. “Is it—is this weird? Is that why you won’t move? You want someone on your back?” 

Marshmallow doesn’t understand him, of course, and doesn’t react in any way, but Louis thinks he’s found it. She’s not used to warming up with Louis, and not used to warming up from the ground – that must be it, it must be. 

“A couple steps, at least?” he tries pleading, hopping in place, even offering her a sugar cube, but nothing moves her. She stays, still and stubborn. 

Louis’s skin feels like it’s itching from the inside. He knows what the obvious solution is here, and the very thought has sweat beading on his temples. Maybe—maybe now’s the time.

Maybe it’s not. 

“You want me to get up there?” he asks her, and his voice shakes. 

She leans her forehead against his chest, like she does so very often. Her warmth helps Louis settle, helps ground him in the moment – right here in the riding hall, just him and the horse, no one to worry about him and no one to tell him what to do. 

He leans down kiss the spot where her bridle sits behind her ears. It’s then that he makes a decision. 

“Will you stand still?” he asks, like that’s not what she’s been doing for the past five minutes. “Will you look out for me, babe?” 

She keeps breathing, a magically calming rhythm of in and out and in again. Louis knows she’ll have his back, no matter what happens. 

He ducks away for a moment, getting to his bag and tugging the breeches out. Changing into them right there on the range is clumsy, not to mention freezing, and he’s probably going to be up there for about ten seconds. 

It feels important that he wears them, though. 

They fit like a second skin, moving with him when he hesitantly walks back to Marshmallow’s side, the brace hugging his knee just this side of tight.

“Ready?” he asks her. He could swear her answering look is amused. Louis pats her on the neck and pulls in the stool they keep around for when Liam pulls his stirrups up. 

_Okay_ , he thinks, _okay_. He knows how to do this. Reins in one hand, front of the saddle, the other hand on the back. Both legs on the stool, then one foot in the stirrup, inhale, exhale. 

“Here we go,” he whispers, still just standing in the stirrup. His first riding teacher used to swat him with a crop whenever he did that, said that he was weighing on the horse for no good reason, but Louis thinks he’s justified this time. “Here we go,” he repeats. 

One foot in the stirrup, still. Test the bounce on the other one. Take a breath, hold on tight. One, two, three. 

He does’t quite get it that time; ends up not doing much other than twisting the saddle on her back, and any minuscule spark of confidence he might have been feeling is extinguished just like that. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologises as he fixes it, hands shaking something awful. “Sorry, gorgeous girl.” 

She doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and for that, Louis is grateful. It gives him enough of a boost to try again, one last time. 

“Alright,” he says, and doesn’t clutch the saddle quite as tight this time. It’s the strength of his arms that will pull him up, and the momentum, not a death grip. “Ready?” 

She’s ready. He’s probably asking himself more than anyone. 

Here he goes again. One. Two. 

He pushes off the stool before he gets to finish counting, pushing himself to do it through the fear that’s squeezing his chest. It’s a split second, barely a blink of an eye, and then he’s in the air, and then falling into the saddle a little bit harder than he would like. He settles right in the dip, as always, and his other foot automatically finds the other stirrup. 

Once the rush of getting up there subsides, the first thing that Louis registers is the pain. It’s not even his knee, but his thighs, the muscles there stretching in a way they haven’t in a very long while. The pull is so incredibly, achingly familiar, and something inside Louis’s chest breaks open. 

He’s shaking when he takes the reins, every muscle in his body wired and trembling, not taking in enough air. 

He’s off the ground again, off his feet, trusting a horse to carry him where he needs to go, looking at the path in front of him through the vee of a pair of ears. It’s everything he has even wanted, ever since he was a boy. 

He thinks he might be having a panic attack, or a coronary, judging by the way everything feels, but he forces himself to sit still. He might not get this chance again. This might be the fist time—the only time—

“Let’s go,” he says, with whatever air is left in his lungs, and squeezes his calves around Marshmallow’s body. She starts walking immediately, slow and fluid, and Louis’s head spins when the ground moves under them. 

No looking down, he remembers. Back straight, forearms fixed, legs under, toes turned in. It’s like assembling a familiar jigsaw, one that he’s done a million times before, shifting his body like puzzle pieces until it forms a familiar image. 

The reins feel clumsy in his hands, too heavy. He doesn’t need them anyway – it’s just a rectangle, and Marshmallow knows as well as any horse to follow the wall. 

Louis is still shaking by the time they’re finished with the first round, still a little too heavy in the stirrups, afraid to grip properly with his thighs. The femur is the strongest bone in the human body, he knows, has been told by doctor after doctor, but his has already broken once – he’s not sure if he trusts it to hold up the weight of his body. 

He breathes out shakily, then closes his eyes. It’s the kind of thing Liam would shout at him for, but Liam isn’t here. 

He puts his hands on his thighs, palms down, and goes through every single muscle in his body, head to toe, doing his best to get them to relax. It’s something Niall had taught him, way back in their first days together, and he’d never found it useful until this very moment. As he relaxes, his body gets used to the natural rocking rhythm of the horse, swaying along with her, settling in all over again, because this is familiar, bloody hell, this is something Louis has done a thousand times. This is _home_. 

He focuses, then, on feeling Marshmallow’s movements instead of his own. “Right,” he says whenever she steps forward with her right foot, an exercise that he used to do when he was starting out. Liam would have him do it until he’d wanted to cry of boredom, claiming it would _align_ Louis with the horse, whatever that means. It becomes a soothing little rhythm now, a steady chant of _right, right, right_ that helps get Louis’s heart back into beat. 

When he opens his eyes, finally, he gets a bit of a shock. He’d almost forgotten he’s all the way up here now, forcing himself to get as comfortable as he would be on his sofa. It’s endlessly strange, seeing everything from this perspective, but it’s unbelievably, finally, _exciting_. 

There’s still an absolute storm going on inside him when he shortens the reins and takes them properly, and fear firing off in his nerve endings, but it’s all overtaken by the strong, steady rhythm that his heart has settled into. 

He can do this. 

Louis clicks his tongue, settling in, and waits until Marshmallow transitions into that easy, slow trot of hers. He tries to sit it out at first, but he knows he won’t be able to keep up as the speed increases. 

It kind of feels like Louis’s one ill-advised attempt at bungee jumping – his heart had been in his throat when he leaned forward and jumped, and no harness could have convinced him that he wasn’t falling to his death. 

Just like back then, he takes a deep breath, then two. Marshmallow trots off the short side and he squeezes her a little before he can change his mind. Her gait gets sharper, throwing him off balance, and without thinking, he does what’s natural to him – posts. 

He’s moving the stirrups on the first rise, and the second, his knees feeling like they’re made of gelatin, but muscle memory takes over soon enough. He grips the saddle with his thighs, holding on for dear life, and keeps his back straight as he goes up and back down, a never-ending rhythm. 

Shit. He’s _riding_. 

He has to slow down just at the thought, pulling Marshmallow back into a walk. He stops her after a couple more laps, muscles aching from the effort of holding himself in the correct position after so long.

“Good girl,” he says, and pats Marshmallow on the neck. He’d already known she was a comfortable horse, heavy and precise in her gaits rather than bouncing all over the place, but being on top of her is entirely different to watching from the ground. “We did it. Bloody _hell_ , we did it.” 

He feels somewhat pathetic as he struggles to get back down, his leg refusing to lift as far as it should, but it’s all background noise compared to the absolute joy that’s burning bright in his chest. This was a crazy thing to do, after everything, getting on a horse he’s never ridden with no helmet, no jacket, nobody there to watch him, fucking hell—

“Found it,” Liam’s voice carries in from outside. Louis hastily brushes himself off, suspecting that Liam will be able to tell what he’s done just by looking at him. 

“Found what?” he calls back, grabbing Marshmallow’s reins and trying to act normal. His legs are trembling, even after barely five minutes on the horse, and he’s never felt better. 

Liam walks in. He’s looking down, absorbed in the standard that he’s holding, flipping it over and presumably checking for damage. “This,” he says, waves it around, then moves to fix it in place of the broken one. “Everything alright?” he asks, and Louis—Louis laughs. 

“Alright,” is what he replies, though he rather feels like singing with happiness. “Yeah, everything’s great.” 

Liam looks at him oddly after that, but Louis pays him no mind. It’s New Year’s Eve, Marshmallow turns out to be one hell of a jumper, and Louis just did his first few rounds on horseback in more than a year. 

It’s a good time.

*

Once January is underway, it’s time for Harry and Marshmallow’s official introduction to the racing world. Harry had looked very excited at the prospect earlier – Louis almost wants to laugh at the expression he’s wearing right now.

“You can’t be serious,” he keeps repeating every five minutes as his printer churns out another stack of papers. “There’s no way we need _all this_.” 

“They’re not all for you,” says Liam, sitting behind the computer, officially in charge. “I’ve got some for me as well, and they all need to be filed before we sign the new contract. I’ve renewed my license, but I’ve got to let them know I’m moving stables, I need to fill out a dozen papers they’ll need if they decide to come for an inspection—so will you, actually, so I guess those are for both of us. Um. There’s your owner’s application, uniform application, five different forms for the vet to sign, handicap system entry request, name application…” 

“Name application?” Harry interrupts. “What’s that?” 

Louis – who’s curled up in an armchair with a cup of tea and only there for moral support – laughs. “She’ll need a brand new posh name for the races. One that the BHA will use to keep track of her. She can’t just be Marshmallow.” 

Harry frowns, crossing his legs and leaning back in his own chair. “Why not?” 

“She probably could,” Liam says, scratching his chin. “The point is that it has to be unique, otherwise you’d have a dozen Governors and two dozen Black Beauties in the same registry.” 

“You might want to have a think about it,” Louis picks up. “Pretty sure they’ll allow anything these days. Bloody Ralph Smith had a horse called Two In The Pink.” 

Harry’s eyes widen. It takes him a few seconds, but once he’s got it, he lets out that delightful bark of a laugh. It’s loud enough to startle a couple of pigeons into flying off the windowsill outside. Louis watches in delight as Harry’s eyes close, then as he puts his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. 

“There was, uh…what was it, Lou? G spot?” Liam pipes up, a wicked grin on his face. 

Louis giggles. “Geespot, G-E-E. By Pursuit of Love and out of My Discovery, you’ve got to give the owner credit for that one.” 

Harry is still laughing, curled into himself. His forehead has gone a bit red, and the rest of his face probably has, too. Louis is delighted. 

“Big Tits,” he says next. “There was one in New Zealand called Maythehorsebewithu.” 

“Passing Wind?” Liam suggests.

“I like Hoof Hearted, personally. A pretty name _and_ a fart joke.” 

Harry stops laughing momentarily, pulling his head up to mouth the words. 

“Hoof…oh. _Oh_ , that’s clever!” 

He’s grinning so bloody wide. Louis feels dazzled, a little winded just from looking at him. 

He’s been feeling a little soft ever since they walked up here in the morning, if he’s honest with himself. This is his first time in Harry’s office, and it’s easily the homiest room he’s seen in the house. He feels like he’s just uncovered a new side to Harry, the one that makes it so he looks right at home amongst framed family pictures and mismatched plush armchairs and the big piano in the corner. The big windows here look out over the pasture, too, and Louis’s mind has been preoccupied with thoughts of Harry holed up here all alone, just watching his horses; with thoughts of being there with him, wrapped around him from behind with an arm across his chest. 

“I think that’s it,” Liam says, all business but still smiling. “Do you want to fill some of these out right now?” 

Harry looks like he’d much rather keep talking about ridiculous horse names. “Do we have to?” he pouts. Louis barely suppresses an urge to look over his shoulder and glare Liam down, letting him know that no, they absolutely don’t have to, because Harry clearly doesn’t feel up to it. 

But Liam, as always, continues to be Liam. “Would probably be good,” he says, and Harry’s face falls a little more. “Just so we can tick off something on the to-do list.” 

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Before we start, can I have a question?” 

“Of course.” 

“Is it really obligatory to carry crops in every race?” 

He might as well reach right into Louis’s chest and squeeze his heart. He looks so serious, so concerned, so—Harry.

“It is,” Liam nods. “Have you been reading the rules?” 

“Yeah,” Harry replies darkly. He’s steepled his hands in front of his face, elbows on his knees. Very little remains of the young boy who was breathless with laughter not five minutes ago. “It’s just—I don’t want her to race if she has to be _beaten_. That’s not what we do here, and I won’t allow it.” 

Liam looks at Louis and, following his gaze, so does Harry. It’s a little too hot in the room, suddenly. 

“They shouldn't be beaten,” he says first, weighing his words. “I mean—a lot of them are, for sure, but if the crop is used correctly, it doesn’t do anything other than make a noise to spur the horse forward. Liam’s been training without one, because he’s not a jock and he doesn’t know how to do it,” he pauses to grin at Liam, who gives him a lovely glare in return. “But if you really don’t want it to happen, you tell Liam, and he’ll tell whoever rides her in the races. They have to carry the crop, but there’s no regulation saying they have to use it.” 

Harry bites his lip. His eyes have gone dark and intense, making Louis squirm in his seat. 

“I don’t want it to happen,” he says, clearly addressing Liam, but his eyes never leave Louis’s face. “Can you do that?” 

“Course I can,” says Liam. “You’ve got it, boss.” 

That finally gets Harry to turn around, an adorable little frown on his face. “You know I don’t—“

“I know,” Liam interrupts, smiling. “I know, sorry. Harry.” 

“Thank you,” Harry smiles. “I, uh—thanks for doing that for me, but I have another favour to ask.” 

Louis fidgets. 

“Ask away,” Liam replies, turning to face Harry, both hands on the table. 

“Okay, so. I’ve got a few bitless bridles that I ordered months ago.” 

Louis thinks he knows where this is going, and he knows it probably won’t be as easy as getting Liam to forego the crop. He fidgets some more, and unconsciously crosses his fingers for Harry. 

“And I’ve been wondering—I mean, I’ve watched plenty of races on the telly, and I’ve been to a few, and the horses—they just always look like they’re in pain. Like, even if we get someone who knows not to pull at the reins too much, a race is a high-stress situation and I’m worried that they’ll forget.” 

Liam’s tilted his head. Louis can almost see the cogs turning, ready to jump in at any time and support Harry, because, aside from being absolutely lovely, this is a _good_ idea. 

“I’ve been riding on the bit all this time,” Liam says finally, careful. Louis can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. “I don’t know if—she might not take to it well, and I can’t afford to pause training just to get her used to it.” 

Harry nods. “I understand. It’s just that I’ve wanted to transition to bitless for a long time, but the kids aren’t experienced enough to handle the switch and I can’t—I just mean that this seems like the best possible time, and I trust you to do it well. If it doesn’t work, I trust you to make sure my horse isn’t in pain when she races. I trust you, Liam, I really do. I’d just love it if you could try.” 

Liam’s eyes soften significantly. Louis, still curled in his armchair, is seconds away from melting into a puddle of goo at Harry’s feet. _So lovely_.

A few seconds of silence, then Liam sighs. “We’ll try,” he decides, nervously shuffling his papers. “We’ll give it a shot, yeah? If it’s no good, I can try working on it with your other horses off-season.” 

Harry’s serious businessman mask lifts just like that, and he beams excitedly. “Thank you!” he almost shouts, like he hadn’t been expecting a positive answer. “Thank you so much, oh, it’s going to be _great_.” 

Louis would rather like to get up and wrap himself around Harry like an octopus, and maybe kiss the tip of his nose while he’s there. He can imagine it so well, too, just them melting together in the big, soft chair, tangling until Louis can’t tell where he begins and ends anymore. Kissing Harry’s temple, and his forehead, and his cheek, and—

“Louis?” Liam is saying, eyebrows raised and clearly expecting an answer to a question Louis hadn’t heard.

“Say again?” 

“I asked if you wanted to take a break. I could go for some tea.” 

Louis blinks. He’s feeling a little suffocated, suddenly, with three people in the room. 

“You go,” he waves a hand. “I’ll come down in a sec, just need to stretch my leg.” 

He’s got his cane with him today, because the weather is absolute shite and his bones are protesting it, but he’s not in any pain just then. Lying about it to have an excuse is a horrible thing to do – Louis feels bad, he does, but he’s not above it, not when Harry is right there and looking at him with concern plain in his eyes. 

Liam shrugs. “Alright,” he says, gathering up some papers and a pen. “Harry, we can go over these if you want?” 

“I thought you said it was a break,” Harry grumbles through a smile, then stands up and follows Liam out of the door. He doesn’t look back at Louis, even though he must feel his eyes burning proverbial holes into his back.

Once he’s alone, Louis groans out loud and puts his face in his hands. 

This is fine.

*

On January 19th, Liam finds a rider.

Her name is Ellie, she’s smart and blonde and pretty, and Louis hates her. 

Liam introduces them without so much as telling Louis first – they pull up at Harry’s and she’s already there, all fancy riding trousers and shiny new helmet, pacing up and down the driveway while she waits. Louis is mature enough to shake her hand and smile, perfectly pleasant on the surface, but it feels like something breaks in him in that very moment, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Which is how he’s ended up on the practice track at five in the afternoon, making a complete embarrassment out of himself. 

“You’re not holding your legs properly,” he’s saying, as Ellie blinks at him with sad eyes and Liam gapes. “You’re pulling on the reins and your knees are too far forward, you’ll knock your teeth out if you keep going like this.” 

“It’s my first time on this horse,” she points out, giving as good as she gets. 

Louis wishes that he could stop being a fucking idiot, just for one second, and appreciate how good a rider she is, how well she fits Marshmallow. Liam has been singing her praises all day, and if Louis weren’t a petty, bitter little man, he’d be doing the same. 

“That’s not an excuse,” he says, except yes, yes it fucking _is_. “You can’t put her off balance if you’re going to be training for a National Hunt.” 

“She’s not even rated yet. We have plenty of time to get used to each other,” she smiles. Louis wishes she would bite; wishes she was as openly nasty to him as he is being to her. Maybe that would be the slap he needs to wake up from whatever this is. 

“That you do,” Liam steps in, his voice threatening, though he hides it well. “Why don’t you take an easy half, just focus on the reins and make sure she listens when you switch leads.” 

“Sure thing,” she says. She transitions from walk to trot to canter like a bloody champion, straight-backed and completely unruffled. 

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Liam turns to Louis. His face is terrifyingly dark. 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest. Louis has trouble recognising him. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles in response, though he knows full well. This is about those five beautiful minutes he had weeks ago, when he let himself believe that everything would magically fix itself and he’d be back on the track in time for Cheltenham. It’s about the license renewal application he’d printed off the other day while no one was looking. 

It’s about realising that nobody had been waiting for him to get better – not Liam, not Harry, and not Marshmallow. It’s about realising that he’d wanted them to. 

“Knock it off,” Liam warns him, oblivious to the turmoil in Louis’s head. “You’re being a twat, and she doesn’t deserve it.” 

“Maybe I should leave,” says Louis, attempting to do the right thing. “I can just—wait inside until you’re done.” 

“You’re here for a reason. I need you.” 

Louis bites his lip, gnawing on it until he tastes blood. “Maybe I don’t want to be here.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he wishes he could take it back, just snatch it out of the air before it reaches Liam’s ears. 

But, because the laws of physics still exist and Louis is having the worst day of his life, Liam hears him. He hears what Louis says and the implication behind it, even though Louis hadn’t meant a word. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises his eyebrows, furrows them, drops them back down. 

Finally, terrifyingly, he takes a breath. 

“Grow up,” is all he says. 

This is bad. This is _so_ bad, and Louis just wants to delay the trainwreck for as long as he possibly can. “Li, I just—“ 

“No, Louis. You don’t get to do this. You’ve completely ruined Ellie’s first day on the job, and you just keep going on! You haven’t told me anything’s wrong, so I have to assume you’re fine and just being a first class _prick_ because you feel like it.” 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just going to go,” he repeats. “I’m going to go in and wait for you, let me know when you’re leaving.” 

It’s the easiest way – probably the only way – to get out of this before it gets ugly. At least that’s what Louis thinks, until he looks at Liam and realises that it’s way too late. 

“You’re not even going to explain yourself,” he says. “Are you joking?” 

Louis contemplates turning on his heel and making a run for it. Ellie and Marshmallow have run their half mile, walking the rest of the way to them at a sedate pace. She can probably hear Liam’s raised voice – probably doesn’t want to intrude, because she’s nice like that. 

“I can’t—I will. Later, I will.” 

There’s too much tangled in here, way too much to even begin explaining or apologising. Not to mention that Louis riding again plays a significant role in the story, and that’s something that Liam doesn’t, and probably shouldn’t, know.

This will be okay, he tells himself. Liam has understood him since the very day they met, has always known the difference between things Louis will talk about and things that will have to be pried out of him later. 

Except. 

“That’s not good enough,” he says, level and dark. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, or at _least_ apologise, don’t bother waiting for me, because I am not taking you home.” 

Louis’s heart gives one heavy, painful thud before it stops beating – or at least that’s how it feels. He’s never seen Liam like this, this _angry_ and cold and completely unsympathetic.

Before he can even begin to collect himself, before he can think of anything to say, Ellie stops stalling and stops Marshmallow at the spot where they started. 

“All done,” she says, quiet like she knows she shouldn’t. “Nice and soft on the turns, she’s doing a great job.” 

Liam gives Louis one last cool look, either oblivious or just willfully ignorant of the way Louis’s chest feels like it’s caving in. Then he’s turning around, and putting on a mask of a smile, and pulling Ellie into a lively conversation about stirrups. He leaves Louis standing alone, ankle-deep in mud, watching and hurting. 

“I’m sorry,” he calls to both of them or neither one, just because it’s the least he can do. He doesn’t wait for them to turn to him, and instead starts on his walk back to the house, face buried in his scarf to battle the wind.

It’s the weather that makes his eyes sting with tears.

*

It’s after dark when Liam leaves, the lights of his car getting smaller in the blackness and eventually fading behind the horizon. Louis watches him from the window of Harry’s banquet hall, feeling like the absolute worst person in the world.

He could have gone out there, he knows, and Liam would have sighed and told him to get in. It just—wouldn’t have been fair. 

The door creaks open. 

“Did I just see Liam leave?” asks Harry, coming into the room accompanied by the sharp _tap-tap_ of his boots on the floor. 

“How did you know I’m here?” Louis turns to him, surprised. 

“I know everything,” Harry smiles. His cheeks are pink, like he’s just come in from the cold, and he’s wearing a gorgeous sheer shirt, first few buttons undone. He’d clearly been off somewhere. Louis is a little ashamed to realise he’s burning with curiousity. “Did something happen?” 

Right. Back to Earth. 

Louis turns away, back to staring out the window, and shrugs. “I guess so. It’s just—I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

Everything outside is pitch black, and Louis sees more of the room reflected in the glass than he does of the front garden. There’s his own face, the chandelier, the shiny floors, and behind him Harry, hands in his back pockets and looking hesitant. 

“That’s okay,” he says, and Louis sees him nod. “Would you like a hug?” 

One day, Louis is going to keel over with the sheer amount of feelings that Harry wakes up in him. Everything inside him feels warm, just looking at the fuzzy reflection of him, and the ghost of Liam’s headlights fades from where it was stuck to Louis’s eyelids. 

“I’d love a hug,” he replies honestly. Harry smiles, and doesn’t give him a chance to turn around – just crosses the distance between them in a few long strides, presses right up against Louis’s back, and wraps his arms around him. 

_Oh_ , Louis thinks, and _shit_ , and _I love you._

_I love you._

__“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles into his hair, as Louis’s heart does frightened somersaults in his chest. “For whatever happened. You’ll be okay.”

Trying to put off the inevitable crisis, Louis brings his hands up to wrap around Harry’s forearms. 

“Thank you,” he says, and “I do hope I will.” 

He thinks Harry might be smiling, the lines of his face shifting in their reflection. Their reflection, because they truly do look like one, all wrapped up in each other. Harry’s chin is resting on Louis’s shoulder, his face buried in his hair, arms around Louis’s chest and legs bracketing his. Louis has gone a little slack without him noticing, relaxing into Harry’s chest, his embrace. He’s tilted his head up, just a little, inches away from Harry’s. 

They could kiss, right here and now. 

“Which bedroom do you want?” asks Harry, murmurs it somewhere above Louis’s s ear.

 _Yours_ , Louis thinks immediately, before the implications of the question catch up with him.

“Don’t be silly,” he says once he realises. “I’m not going to stay, I don’t want to put you out. I’ll just—call a cab, I guess.”

“That’ll cost you a fortune, Louis. And you know you’re not putting me out, I love having you here.” 

Louis latches onto the word _love_. It sounds gorgeous in Harry’s rumble of a voice, and he wants to hear it all the time. 

Every day, for as long as he lives, because he’s bloody in love with Harry Styles. 

Bugger. 

In love or not, he’s powerless to resist when Harry looks at him in the reflection, eyes big and a pout firmly in place. 

“Fine,” Louis sighs, like he’s doing Harry a favour. “I’ll stay.” 

“Good,” Harry says back, but Louis doesn’t quite hear him, too busy looking at his own face in the windowpane. He doesn’t look any different, though he feels like he should. There are monumental things shifting inside of him, crumbling walls and building them back up until he feels like a whole different person. 

This—this was never supposed to happen. Louis is going to take it in stride, and he’s going to move on, but it was _never supposed to happen_. Harry is gorgeous, and that’s all Louis was meant to think about him. He’s also disarmingly lovely, and kind and funny and a bloody beautiful person, but those parts of him, those are not Louis’s to want. They shouldn’t be. 

He knows, on some level, that he was always going to end up here. He’d started on this road the very first moment he laid eyes on Harry’s miracle of a face, and he’s finally arrived at the destination. It’s an unpleasant realisation, because it can’t ever be, but at the same time—

They look so right, he realises as he looks at the two of them. They look like they’ve done this a million times before, and in various states of undress. Louis feels, just then, like he was made to fit Harry’s body, like Harry was made to fit his. 

“D’you want a drink?” Harry asks, piercing Louis’s screaming thoughts, rolling in like calm water at low tide and carrying away everything that isn’t here and now. 

He really doesn’t know. Nothing is going to change between them, it’ll all be the same, even though Louis has just carved himself a brand new boulder to put on his own shoulders. 

“ _Please_ ,” he says, slightly winded, and exhales deeply when Harry peels himself away from him and heads to the bar. This is fine. Everything is fine. He’s cocked things up with his best friend, and he’s in love with someone he can’t have, but all of that can be dealt with later – namely, when there isn’t booze. 

“What would you like?” Harry asks him once he makes his way over on unsteady feet. “I’ve got—well, I reckon I’ve got everything. I re-stock every week, and Robin left a lot of things behind.” 

Louis settles on one of the stools, elbows planted firmly on the bar and watching as Harry magics up a shaker. 

“What’s your specialty, barkeep?” he grins, easy, easy. This feels as natural as breathing. 

“Well,” Harry tilts his head. “I like drinks that distinguished gentlemen such as yourself might consider _girly_.”

Louis cackles. He’s actually this close to fluttering his lashes and telling Harry how funny he is, but he restrains himself. “Give me your worst,” he says, making himself comfortable. 

“As you wish, sir,” Harry grins, bending to get some ice and cranberry juice out of the fridge. “Want a Cosmo?” 

“Fuck yeah I do.” 

Harry smiles as he throws things into the shaker, then closes it and tries to _bust some moves_ – in his own words. He manages a couple of flips, but it’s catching the shaker that proves to be too much, and it lands on the counter with a clang. 

His Cosmos, however, are incredible. A little on the strong side – Louis feels them burn as he sips his first, then second, then third – but just the right balance of sweet and sour and bitter. 

“Are you a bartender, then?” he asks, a little loose-tongued as the booze settles in his bloodstream. 

“Huh?” Harry tilts his head. He’s flushed and messy-haired, and another button of his shirt has somehow come undone. 

“Your secret job,” Louis clarifies. “I haven’t had a cocktail this good in ages. Do you sneak off to country clubs to serve whiskey to old men?” 

Harry puts his forehead down on the bar and sets of giggling like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. He’s squirming on his stool, so alive and gorgeous, and Louis’s hands ache with how much he wants to reach out and pull him on his lap. 

“I’m not a bartender,” Harry says finally, reaching for the shaker to pour himself another. He’d done the whole orange peel thing in the beginning, made it look fancy and professional, but now he has trouble getting the liquid in the glass, laughing and squinting at it. Louis suspects it’s only part alcohol, and part that warm, loose feeling you give in to when you’re comfortable and about to get drunker. “’M not that good. I just know how to make these because they’re my favourite,” he says, and pointedly sips on his cosmo. He’s holding his pinkie straight out, like he’s at a fancy tea party. 

“You should consider it,” Louis says, and clinks his glass against Harry’s. “If this whole racing thing doesn’t work out.” 

Harry hears him, but he doesn’t reply, instead squinting into his drink. He looks very, very young, and is also dipping his hair in his cosmo. 

“Careful,” Louis giggles – perhaps he’s a little drunker than he’d originally thought – and reaches over to pull it out. 

Harry grimaces. “I’m not very coordinated when I’m drunk,” he says, enunciating every word. “D’you know what we should do?” 

“What’s that?”

“Dance.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re up for that?” 

Harry sticks out his tongue, and slams his glass down with a little more force than necessary. He stands up, impressively balanced, and ambles over to the fancy stereo in the corner. The sound of his shoes against the floor echoes in the massive room, bouncing off the walls and back to Louis until he’s dizzy with it. 

Harry plugs his phone in (it takes him three tries) and scrolls for a bit, lip held between his fingers. Louis wants to think about how much he wants to kiss the little contemplative wrinkle on his forehead, but he’s got to concentrate on standing up and walking. 

Finally, a song starts playing. It takes Louis about half a second to recognise. 

“Seriously?” 

Harry shrugs, already shimmying like nobody’s business. The grin on his face has a bit of bite to it, a challenge as he approaches Louis. He doesn’t seem nearly as tipsy as he did less than five minutes ago. 

“Go Johnny go, go,” he sings, jumping about in his ridiculous boots, arms above his head and hair flying, and Louis is absolutely powerless to resist. He feels safe with Harry, and nobody can see them here anyway. 

He closes the distance between them, wraps an arm around Harry’s waist as he spins, and gets pulled along for the ride. Harry laughs somewhere above him, his hands on Louis’s shoulders, twisting his legs in a poor imitation of an Irish jig. 

They must look a right pair of fools, stumbling around to Chuck Berry in Harry’s posh ballroom, but Louis’s cheeks are burning with pleasure, and he feels light-headed in the best way. His knee is hurting a little, he thinks, but he’s too high to care, his mind too hazy. 

“We should do a lift,” Harry says into the space between them, then moves one arm to Louis’s waist and pulls him closer. The song has changed to something that might be Elvis, but it’s all white noise to Louis’s ears when he looks up and notices how close they are. 

“A lift?” he questions, staring at the bow of Harry’s lips. They’re the softest thing he’s ever seen. 

“Like in Dirty Dancing,” Harry replies. He puts his other arm on Louis’s waist too, pulling them flush against each other. They’re swaying now, way too slow to the lively beat of the music, but neither of them seems to care. “I could just—“ and he pushes Louis away, only to put his hands firmly on his hips. They’re—quite big. Christ. 

He actually attempts to lift Louis, too, getting him a few inches of the ground before Louis realises what’s happening. He squirms, kicking his feet to find some kind of purchase, but all he ends up doing is taking out Harry’s legs. 

They land on the floor with a thud, Harry on the bottom and Louis on top of him. There are a few seconds of astonished silence, both of them looking at the other wide-eyed, and then they simultaneously burst into giggles. 

“You’re no Patrick Swayze, I’m afraid,” says Louis, rolling off of him but staying as close as he possibly can. He’s looking up at the ceiling now, squinting into the dozens of little bulbs of the chandelier, and Harry’s breathing beside him, just this side of too fast. 

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I happen to be an excellent dancer. You, on the other hand…” 

“Careful,” Louis rolls on his side, facing him. 

They’re both grinning, he realises, all but laying on top of each other and speaking in hushed voices. There’s impersonal, open space all around them, and the floor is cold, but Louis feels as warm and cozy and comfortable as he would in his own bed. 

“Sorry,” he apologises when Harry says nothing. His brain tells him it’s a good idea to touch Harry right now, pretty please, and he does just that; cups a hand over Harry’s jaw and cheek, his thumb resting dangerously close to the corner of his lips. If he were sober, he’d be screaming right now. “I shouldn’t have kicked you.” 

“I’ll live,” says Harry, but he’s pouting a little. His lips are pursed and dark pink, right _there_. Louis could just move his hand and touch them, get them open, have Harry moaning. “Hurts, though. You’re worse than a horse.” 

Louis’s mouth falls open in faux-shock, and instead of fishing for a clever reply, he decides to go the kindergarten way – namely, tickling. 

Harry shrieks when he feels Louis’s fingers under his ribs, immediately squirming, kicking his legs. 

“Not fair!” he gasps, mouth open around a breathless laugh. “Not fair! I don’t deserve this!” 

He doesn’t tell Louis to stop, and Louis doesn’t. 

“You sure?” he asks, getting up on his knees to get both his hands in on the action, running feather-light over Harry’s torso, lingering a bit too long on his gorgeous hips. “Because I thought I heard you say—“ 

“Mercy!” Harry shrieks as Louis hits a particularly sensitive spot. There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, face gone rosy with alcohol and laughter and trying to get away from Louis. “I’m sorry I said you’re a horse!” 

“Are you?” 

“Yes,” Harry hiccups, some of the fight going out of him. “Please stop.” 

Louis takes his hands off him hastily, still leaning over his body but ready to pull away. 

“Sorry,” he says, with a grin that feels shaky. 

Harry blows out an exaggerated breath, sending messy hair flying off his face. 

Louis’s chest aches with want. It’s not the wild kind, not the fire that he feels waking up in his belly whenever he looks at Harry’s chest for too long; it’s the longing he’s felt for years, the desire to have someone to be soft with, someone to kiss when he wants nothing more than that. Someone to adore. Someone who would adore him right back. 

His heart is set, now, on Harry being that person. Louis wishes he could explain, rationally, why it can’t happen. 

But then—then Harry looks up at him, lashes dark and his eyes shining like galaxies, a gorgeous flush staining his skin pink, his hair a perfect halo around his head. Then Harry looks up, and Louis’s heart jumps, and he realises that no explanation could ever be enough. 

“Hi,” Harry whispers, almost inaudible through the music that’s still playing. He’s got one of his hands resting on his stomach, and Louis, enchanted, wraps his fingers around that wrist. 

_Thump-thump-thump._

“Hi,” he replies, staring at him, but Harry isn’t looking back. His eyes have glazed over, set on Louis’s lips.

Louis blinks, and licks them out of pure instinct. This isn’t—this can’t. 

Harry twists his hand in Louis’s grip, palm up, and wraps his own fingers around Louis’s wrist. It’s just like the first time they met, except so much more. There are weeks, months full of laughter, of warmth, of companionship. Of falling in love.

For Louis, that is. 

“Hey,” Harry says again. There’s something in his eyes, a question, but Louis has no answers to give him. “Hey.” 

Louis smiles at him, remembering how much they’ve drunk. “Hi, Harry.” 

And Harry doesn’t reply this time – instead, he pulls. His fingers dig into the bones of Louis’s wrist, pulling his arm up, and the rest of Louis’s body follows; follows until he’s leaning over Harry, face right above his. 

Their hands are resting, joined, on Harry’s collarbone. Louis watches as if from afar as Harry twists his wrist out of his grip, slow, gentle, and lets Louis’s hand fall there. 

“Harry,” he says, a warning, a plea. He’s not certain what’s happening, but at the same time, he _knows_. It’s plain to see in the way his own fingers trace the hollow of Harry’s collarbone, in the way Harry tilts his head back to give Louis access. 

“Lou,” says Harry, voice high, stuck in his throat. It’s become Louis’s favourite nickname now, and hearing it that way, from Harry’s pink, pink mouth, makes Louis’s skin prickle with heat. 

And then, _then_ : 

“Kiss me, please.” 

So Louis does. 

There’s no time to think, and he doesn’t want to, not until they’ve both sobered up and Harry tells him this was a mistake. He wants this so badly it makes him shake, wants to lean down and taste Harry’s smile, to find home in his lips. 

He cups Harry’s cheek again, holding him in place with a touch that’s barely there. Harry’s pulse is racing against his fingers, skin hot, and he’s nervous too, he’s got to be, because this feels monumental. 

He kisses Harry softly, as gently as he can, just a press of lips on lips. It’s still electric, somehow, spreads through his entire body like a shock. Harry inhales sharply, hands pulling at Louis’s clothes until he gets the message and straddles him. Once he’s satisfied, he wraps his arms around Louis’s neck, pulling him closer. 

Louis is trembling when he pulls away and goes back in for another kiss, barely taking in enough air because he has to have this, have Harry, while he can. Harry whines when their lips touch again, a gorgeous little sound that tickles Louis’s mouth. 

Louis takes his face in both hands, probably a little too firm, just scared, so scared that this is going to disappear if he so much as breathes wrong. 

He pours everything he’s got into the next kiss, getting Harry’s mouth open just right, sucking on his bottom lip. He tastes sweet, just sweet like the cranberry juice he’d mixed into their drinks earlier, absolutely intoxicating. Louis could drown in him right now; would be perfectly content not coming up for air ever again. 

“Lou,” Harry says again, much rougher this time, with a warm hand on Louis’s chest. 

Louis pulls away with a smack, not at all embarrassed. His lips are bloody _tingling_ , and he wants to touch them, make sure that Harry’s impression is there to stay. 

“What is it?” he says, and barely recognises his own voice. “You okay?” 

Harry just—looks. Time passes in the slow blinks of his lashes, one, two, three in absolute silence. He’s all tousled, blush running down his neck and chasing the wide open hems of his shirt. He’s an absolute miracle. 

He shakes his head a little, then opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but changes his mind at the last minute. 

“Nothing,” he whispers, licking his lips. “Just—“ 

And his hands are on Louis’s neck, one running into his hair and the other pulling him in. It’s Harry who takes initiative this time, and he makes Louis’s toes curl. 

He kisses like he can’t get enough, like he wants to drink Louis in. He sucks on Louis’s lip, then pulls away, comes back with a peck or two or three and finally kisses Louis deep, in a way that would surely make his knees give out if he were standing. 

Louis readily opens for his tongue, gentle and thorough and gorgeously slick against Louis’s own when they meet. There are teeth in the way, and Louis thinks his leg might be cramping, but that’s not important; nothing is when Harry is all but moaning into his mouth, his body moving out of its own volition, rippling against Louis. 

Louis takes control of the kiss, feeling an intense need to anchor himself before he floats off. He gets a hand in Harry’s hair, finally in the way that he’s really wanted to, and tugs. Harry listens immediately, tilts his head back so Louis can kiss him more thoroughly, can explore every corner of his beautiful mouth, can mouth at his jaw and suck a mark into his neck. 

“So gorgeous,” slips out of his mouth without him noticing, too preoccupied with miles and miles of Harry’s warm, sweaty skin. “Harry, Jesus, you’re so—so beautiful.” 

Harry whines, and his entire body goes taut when Louis bites a spot just above his collarbone. Louis himself is half-heard already, so heavy between his legs, so hungry for it that it scares him a little. 

He knows, in the corner of his mind that’s still capable of thinking, that time is running out, that this won’t last forever. He wants to make every last second count. 

“Lou,” Harry whispers, grabbing at Louis’s hair, his shoulders, his hips. “Louis.” 

They’re too far away, far too much cold distance between their bodies. Louis is still on his knees, though he could probably cover Harry like a blanket, and Harry would let him. 

He moves, intending to shift them into something more comfortable, but Harry is ahead of him. He grabs Louis’s hand, crushing his fingers, and pulls them both—up?

Louis stumbles, feet tangling with Harry’s and almost sending them both right back to the ground. It punches a laugh out of him, and Harry giggles too, a welcome break from the all-consuming intensity of the past few minutes. 

He’s barely through thinking that when Harry is right back on him, hands on his hips and shuffling them backwards, towards the bar. Louis only realises what his intentions are when he’s pressed against it, Harry’s body touching his in too many places to count. 

“Shit,” he hisses when their cocks make contact, because Harry is hard too, is rocking into him quick and desperate. Louis wraps his arms around his waist, presses in until their chests are touching, until he can reach Harry’s lips again. 

They’re positively filthy this time, both of them moaning into it, kissing open-mouthed and full of tongue. It’s so good Louis feels like he might shake apart any second, like wherever he touches Harry, whatever he does, will never be enough. 

He manages to get Harry’s shirt open, one slippery button at a time, and get his hands on his chest, his pecs, his beautiful, beautiful nipples. Harry’s mouth is too good to be true, but Louis can’t resists breaking away and leaning down, hand on Harry’s back and getting him right where Louis wants him. 

He kisses Harry’s chest first, right over where his heart is beating rapid and strong, then moves down to his nipples. He waits there for a second, breathing open-mouthed, just to see—

“Louis,” Harry says, so eager it’s little more than an exhale, “Louis, Louis, _please_.”

His hand finds its way back into Louis’s hair and squeezes – that’s all Louis needs to dart his tongue out, tasting Harry’s skin. His nipples are lovely, dark and puffy and fascinatingly responsive. He kisses one, then sucks on it, and Harry almost bends in half just to get his chest closer to him, to tell Louis not to stop. 

It makes Louis feels so good, so wanted, has him dripping into his underwear. Now that he’s had a taste, it’s impossible to stop, impossible to let go of Harry for longer than necessary. 

Harry is hunched over him, almost, one arm around Louis’s shoulder and making the most amazing little sounds, twitching every time Louis gets something right. It’s like pushing all the buttons at once just to see what happens, and what happens is that Harry gets wound up and sweaty and gorgeous, cock hard and straining against Louis’s stomach through his jeans. 

Louis’s skin is burning; he feels like he’s seconds from coming, even though he’s still wearing his clothes, even though Harry has barely touched him. It’s just too good, all of this. 

“Can I—“ he starts, intending to ask if he could pretty please suck Harry’s cock, but trails off into a moan when Harry yanks at his waistband. His hands are shaking so hard he’s become clumsy. 

Louis wraps his own hands around them, so unbelievably turned on, but worried too. 

“Hey,” he says, with a kiss to Harry’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his lips. “Hey, you okay?” 

He nods quickly, but doesn’t look up. His hair is falling around his face, gone wild with the heat between them, but Louis isn’t tempted to tug on it, this time. He just wants to see Harry’s face. 

“Harry,” he says, low and firm though he feels anything but. It would be so easy to just let him carry on – scarily so. “Harry, look at me.” 

It takes him a second, but he does. He’s taken his hands off Louis’s trousers, letting them hang limp in Louis’s grip, but his body is still plastered to him, still moving, cock still riding Louis’s thigh. 

He stops when their eyes meet. It’s in that moment that something in him changes, Louis can tell. 

“What is it?” he asks, because he can _feel_ the change - in the way Harry’s body slackens, in the way he clenches his fist, in the air around them. 

His eyes are a little glazed over, but he blinks, again and again until Louis almost reaches out to touch his face. And then, little by little, and plain to see, they widen in horror. 

It takes Harry less than a second to break out of Louis’s loose grip, to turn away and pull the tails of his shirt to himself. He _runs_ —literally runs across the room until he stumbles and falls in a heap in one of the corners. The last thing Louis sees before he’s too far to touch are the tears brimming in his eyes. 

 

He feels suddenly sober, any trace of arousal gone. He still feels Harry’s skin under his fingertips, hears the moans pressed against the shell of his ears, but the really Harry is over there, crumpled in the corner like someone had thrown him away. 

Louis almost tears up with worry, with panic. He has no idea what just happened, and no idea how to help, if he can, if he might be the _cause_. 

Harry doesn’t let him think for long. His shoulders start shaking, even as tightly curled around himself as he is, and the soft sound of his sobs carries in the big room. He’s crying, really crying, and Louis has to do _something_. 

He’s loud on purpose as he walks toward him, breathing deep and letting his shoes squeak against the floor. It’s the same way he would approached a spooked horse, but it’s the only thing he knows. 

“Harry?” he tries, soft, and slides down along the opposite wall. They’re so far apart it’s almost a physical ache, but it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that Harry feel safe, and if he doesn’t feel that way around Louis, Louis will stay away. “Hey.” 

Harry sniffles, breathing hard enough that Louis can hear. It takes him a few tries to get out the words: “I’m sorry.” 

Louis bites down on a sad laugh. Of course that’s the first thing out of Harry’s mouth. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, love,” Louis says, realising too late that he’d let a term of endearment slip in, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m just—are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m fine,” Harry nods. Louis can’t see his face, but he knows he’s lying. “I’m okay, I’m—God, I’m so sorry, this is embarrassing.” 

“Not at all, “ Louis reassures. He’s not sure what to say next – he doesn’t want to push, but he doesn’t want to leave it. Harry had panicked, had run away from him and curled into the fetal position on his expensive carpet. He’s not okay, and Louis cannot bring himself to just sweep it under the rug. 

Surprisingly, it’s Harry who breaks the silence: “Why are you so far away?” 

Maybe he feels it too, then – this burning, pulsating emptiness where another body had been.

Louis bites his lip, unsteadily rising to his knees. “Can I come closer?” 

Instead of a response, Harry reaches out for him. Louis can’t quite see his face for all the hair, can’t tell what he’s feeling, but the slight tremor in Harry’s fingertips spurs him into action. 

He slides across the floor, his knee creaking in protest, and wraps his hand around Harry’s as soon as he’s within reach. He curls up right next to him, leaning against the wall, wanting desperately to help in any way he can. 

Harry looks so small like this, so unimaginably vulnerable. Louis’s heart is breaking. 

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, fingers trailing over the soft skin of Harry’s wrist, over the pulse that still beats there, erratic but strong. “What is it, love?” 

Harry sniffles again, and uncurls a little. His hand twitches in Louis’s. 

“It’s…” he starts, in a voice that’s thick with tears. “I just can’t do this.” 

Louis knew this was coming. He knew, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

“I understand,” he says, desperate to reassure Harry, to stop his tears. His chest feels broken open, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter, not when Harry’s shoulders are still shaking. “I understand, Harry, it’s okay. I’m, uh. I’m sorry it got this far.” 

Finally, Harry looks up at him. His gaze is sharp, not at all the way Louis expected it to be, and though his eyes are brimming with tears, there is a fire burning inside them. 

He’s got a strand of hair on his cheek, stuck there with the wetness of his tears. Louis stifles the urge to tuck it behind his ear.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “That’s not—it’s me.” He seems to realise what he’s said, then, and a minuscule smile appears in the corner of his mouth. “This feels right. Doesn’t it?” 

Louis’s breath stutters. “It does,” he replies, before he can stop and think about it.

“It does,” Harry repeats. He looks down, down at their linked hands. “It feels—it feels like it could be so much.”

Louis wonders, silently, if Harry has any idea of the wounds he’s putting in his heart with every word he speaks. 

“It feels,” he continues, and looks up at the ceiling this time, his face shiny with tears in the light. “It feels like I could love you, one day. Like you could love me.”

 _I already do, darling,_ Louis thinks, falling apart breath by breath. _I already do_.

He doesn’t stop himself this time, doesn’t hold himself back as he reaches out and wipes Harry’s tears away, combs through his hair, does his best to let him know that he’s here, and here to stay. His heart feels like it’s gone and shattered on the shiny ballroom floor, but he’ll be damned if he lets it show now. 

More than anything, he’s confused. When Harry first kissed him he’d thought, somewhere deep down, that all these things he’s been dreaming about could come true. That Harry could be his, and he could be Harry’s, and it wouldn’t have to be complicated.

Clearly, he was wrong. 

Harry looks like he wants to speak, is making that face he makes when he’s just looking for the right words. He nuzzles into Louis’s hand wherever he touches him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry, I—this could’ve been really good meaningless sex,” he grins, but it’s twisted. Sad. 

Louis frowns. Nothing, absolutely nothing with Harry could ever be meaningless. 

“But I can’t do it,” he continues. “The lines are just—they’re too blurred. I could fall for you so easily, and I don’t—can’t do that. I won’t.” 

“Why not?” Louis asks, with the last dregs of air in his lungs. _I could fall for you so easily. I could fall for you. I could._

“Love’s just not for me,” Harry says, and smiles what has to be the saddest smile Louis has ever seen. “I don’t want it.” He’s silent for a second, and then, in between one miserable thud of Louis’s heart and the next: “I’m scared of it.”

“Why?” Louis asks before he can stop himself, and immediately bites his lip. None of his business, it’s none of his bloody—

“Remember the carving?” Harry asks, his lashes dark and trembling as he looks down, away. Louis reels a little at the sudden change of topic. 

“The carving?” 

“In the stable,” Harry huffs. “ _H + W_? You asked me about it.” 

He’s picking at his cuticles, attacking loose bits of skin with a single-minded focus, and it takes all Louis has not to reach out and stop him. 

He focuses, instead, on the blurry memory that haunted him for weeks. 

“Oh,” he says finally. Something cold like dread spills through his veins. “I—yeah. I remember.” 

Harry nods. “I lied.” 

Louis pets at the skin of his wrist; draws meaningless shapes there, over and over. “I figured,” he says, feeling rather like he’s walking a tightrope, about to fall to his death any second.

“I’m not a very good liar,” Harry smiles – Louis thinks he does, anyway. “But, uh. Yeah. I was H. Am. Was. I don’t really know, to be honest.” 

He’s squeezing Louis’s hand, like he needs help, like he can’t talk about this on his own. 

Louis squeezes back and, as gently as he can, asks: “Who was W, then?” 

Harry looks up. “My boyfriend,” he says. “Fiancé, I guess, but that didn’t last very long.” 

His eyes are shining, wet with an emotion Louis can’t identify. He wants to tell Harry to stop talking, to keep his secrets, to hold it inside if giving it voice hurts him this much. 

Harry’s decided, though. It’s plain to see in that determined crinkle in his forehead, the one he gets when he’s dead set on things going his way. 

“He wasn’t a very good person,” he says, ignoring the tremble that’s found its way into Louis’s hands. “Oh, what am I saying, he was a twat.” 

It startles a laugh out of Louis, raspy like it knows it doesn’t have a place in this conversation. It lifts the mood, though, and brings a ghost of a smile to Harry’s face, too.

“He didn’t—he didn’t treat me very well,” Harry says, small, so damn small. Louis immediately wants to hurt whoever made him sound like that. “I met him at one of mum’s parties, he was a _Duke_ ,” he sneers. “I was seventeen, and gay, and so was he, and that was—it was enough for me.” 

“Oh, Harry.” 

“I know,” he says drily, “believe me, I know. But he was older, and he said he could _show me a good time_ ,” he grimaces. “I make myself sound like a slag, but I just—I was so lonely, Louis. It was awful.” 

Louis’s heart gives a painful thud for the Harry of years ago, for how much Louis feels for him, how much he sympathises. He’d managed to make few friends as a teenager, too focused on riding, and none of them had been the kind of people he’d want to talk to about serious things, even as confused as he had been at that age. 

“I understand,” he says, wrapping a hand around Harry’s wrist, because he needs him to _know_. “There’s nothing—none of it was your fault.” 

“You don’t know the story yet,” Harry gives a wan smile, his knuckles digging into Louis’s skin as he curls his hand into a fist. 

Louis shakes his head. “Still,” he says, “I know that much.” 

Silence falls over them like a blanket, thick and too-hot under Louis’s collar. The music has stopped. 

Harry is looking at him with big eyes, younger than he’s ever been, his lashes still clumped together by tears. _I love you_ , Louis thinks again, slowly settling into the thought. 

“Thank you,” Harry says finally. “I—thank you, really.” 

“Anytime,” Louis smiles. “D’you want to finish the story?” 

Harry looks down, watching the light that glints off his polished floor. He takes a deep breath, then another, his chest expanding in the vee of his shirt. He looks better now. Calmer. 

“We had sex that same night,” he starts, and Louis resolutely stomps on his jealousy. “In the second floor lounge, oh _God_.” There’s a hint of a blush in his cheeks, a pretty, pretty pink. “We had a lot of sex, because we were teenagers, and then we—we started dating, I guess. He was the reason I came out to my family, actually. I wish I could just—take that back.” 

An entirely different kind of dread shakes Louis’s stomach. “Did they not take it well?” 

Harry blinks, surprised. It takes him a second to get it, and then he laughs, bright and genuine, if short. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not it. They were lovely about it, as I knew they were going to be, but I was…I was Harry, William’s boyfriend from then on, instead of just Harry, really gay and kind of confused about it. I realised once I started dating him that I was fine with my sexuality, but I didn’t really get a chance to find out who I am, you know? It made it so much harder to walk away later.” 

Louis rubs the back of his hand, his knuckles, the soft pads of his fingers. There’s a leftover flake of pink nail varnish shining on his pinkie. 

“Why did you?” he asks, barely loud enough to be heard. 

Harry shrugs. He’s leaning back against the wall now, long legs stretched in front of him, shirt sitting lopsided on his shoulders. “As I said,” he says. “He didn’t treat me very well.”

And he closes right back up, then, knees to his chest, hair hiding his face. “We were together for three years, then we got engaged, and by the end of it I realised—“ he takes a breath, loud and shaky. “I realised I was scared of him.” 

Louis’s heart breaks clean in two. 

“I was always on his arm at parties,” he quirks his lips. “I was always _the boyfriend_. He’d pick out my clothes and bring them over and sit on my bed while I changed. He’d tell me I should tuck my shirt into my trousers, and wear a different belt with that. And cut my hair. Exercise more. My thighs were too big, apparently.” He accompanies his words with a snort, making it obvious just what he thinks of his ex-boyfriend’s opinion, but it’s not quite enough to stop Louis from seeing red. 

The thought of anyone, _anyone_ treating Harry like that is enough to make his stomach turn. He carries himself with so much confidence, such a gorgeous, irresistible grace, and he deserves someone who lifts him up and supports him and stands by him in every decision he makes. He deserves the whole universe on a silver platter, and he’d get it for breakfast every single day if Louis had his way.

Louis bites his tongue, lest he say something he’d probably regret later. He wants to tell Harry a million things at once; how much Louis admires him, how gorgeous he is, how absolutely irresistible his thighs are. That this _William_ isn’t worth the sad crease between his eyebrows. 

“I didn’t think I was good enough for him,” Harry continues, his voice a mumble now. “I cared so much about what he thought of me, and my whole family loved him so much, I just—I didn’t want to screw anything up. I wanted to be exactly who he wanted me to be, just so he’d stay.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, has to say, before he blows up and kicks the shit out of some very expensive furniture. There’s rage bubbling underneath his skin, but sadness too, an intense, burning ache for everything that this beautiful boy has had to go through. He wants to take all of it away, let it soak through Harry’s skin and right into his. He’s used to pain; he can take it. Harry shouldn’t have to. 

“I was so in love with him. _So_ in love, Lou, I thought—I thought for sure that I’d found the right person for me, that we were going to get married and fill this empty house with children and just—have a life, you know?” he knocks the heel of his shoe against the floor, a loud _tap_ in the quiet room. He looks a little like he wants to run; Louis doesn’t blame him. 

“He wanted us to move away, though. To France, because his father did, uh—something to do with politics there, and wanted him to take over. I asked him what I was supposed to do there, and he said he didn’t care.” He looks up this time, staring at the shimmering ceiling. “He didn’t want kids, either,” he says. “Said gay men weren’t meant to raise children.”

Louis remembers, immediately, Harry leaning small against the wall of his kitchen, his soft, soft voice. _I love kids. Can’t wait to have my own someday._

“That’s fucked up,” he says, much harsher than he’d intended. To his relief, Harry shoots him a grateful look. “And not true, obviously. You’re wonderful with kids, you should get to have as many as you want.”

 _With me_ , he doesn’t add. It’s not the right time, the right place. The right life. 

More than anything, Harry deserves happiness, and he deserves to choose where he finds it. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, and it takes Louis a second to realise he’s looking at him again. 

“Of course.” 

Louis lets go of Harry’s hand, suddenly feeling like he shouldn’t be touching him, and leans back against the wall, folding his legs. There are mere millimeters between them, Harry’s body heat crawling up Louis’s body, drawing him closer. 

“Anyways, then—then he put a ring on my finger, and I didn’t tell him no, but…it’s supposed to be a happy thing, isn’t it? When you get engaged?” 

Louis swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, it is.” 

“It wasn’t for me,” says Harry, picking at the cuff of his shirt. “We had a big party, dozens of people just—shaking my hand and telling me how lucky I was, how jealous they were, and the entire time I just…” he trails off. Shakes his head. “I couldn’t _breathe_. I wanted to run from the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.” 

A smile finds its way onto his face, small, but genuine enough. Louis smiles in response. 

“I made a scene,” Harry says, hand covering his eyes in embarrassment. “I was drunk, and I made _such_ a scene, but it seemed like the only way at the time, you know?” 

Louis makes an affirmative noise. He can’t quite form words, too busy keeping his anger in check. 

“He was the one who ended up running. He asked for the ring back first, though.” 

He says that with an air of finality, like it’s the end of the story, his chin tipped up and shoulders relaxed. He’s closed his eyes, and even now, still, the beautiful slope of his nose and the delicate fan of his lashes make Louis want to kiss him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, for what feels like the tenth time tonight, because the alternative would be calling Harry’s ex an ugly twat. Louis feels like that might be crossing some kind of line. 

“Not your fault,” Harry shrugs. “But that’s—that’s why I can’t.” 

Louis, miraculously, has almost forgotten what started this conversation. The feeling of Harry’s lips on his seems so far away, like it happened weeks ago instead of minutes. Like he didn’t know Harry half as well as he does now. 

“Can’t fall in love?” he asks, through the tightness that’s taken hold of his throat again. 

Harry nods wordlessly, and reaches out a hand to rest on Louis’s knee. It’s big and warm and familiar; it makes Louis want to cry. 

“I just—I was lying to myself all that time, even when I felt things change. When he started treating me differently I told myself I could get used to it, because I was in love and people who are in love compromise. I was so bloody _devoted_ to him, and he treated me like a plaything, and I just—I can’t. I lost three years of my life for nothing, and I’m too scared it could happen again.” 

Louis curls into himself. He wants to kick and shout and cry, to ask Harry if he really couldn’t feel it, how perfectly their lips, their hands fit into each other. _This feels right_ , he’d said, and Louis wants to drag those words back up, selfishly throw them back in Harry’s face. 

_It’s the only thing that matters_ , he wants to tell him. _I’m right for you, and you’re right for me. The rest will figure itself out._

 __But instead of all that, instead of giving in to the bitter taste on his tongue, he reaches out to touch Harry’s shoulder, and says: “I understand.”

He wants this – wants Harry – so much it’s a physical ache, but he can’t have him. He just can’t. 

Deep down, he already knew this. He’s shocked to find it still hurts like hell. 

“Thank you,” Harry looks at him, and holds his gaze this time. There’s a million things swimming there that Louis can’t decode. “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. I think—I think it’s better for both of us, yeah? It’s better if we stop whatever this is now, before either of us gets hurt.” 

Louis bites his lip, then nods. Harry doesn’t know; can’t know. There’s no sense in telling him now – it’d probably just make him feel bad.

They pick themselves up, then, hands off each other and a respectable distance between their bodies. Harry goes back behind the bar and mixes up a couple of terrifyingly strong gin and tonics. Louis wishes the alcohol was enough to distract him from the bright red mark right under Harry’s jaw, the one that he put there.

So Harry doesn’t want them to fall in love. 

It’s too fucking bad, then, that he’s said so a good few months too late.


	2. Chapter 2

Liam gets in inhumanely early the next morning. The only reason Louis is there to meet him in the parking lot is because he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

It’s ridiculously cold, the grounds all around them covered in frost. Louis has borrowed one of Harry’s fluffy parkas, to keep him warm and give him courage at the same time. 

“Hi,” he says as soon as the driver’s side door creaks open, and balls his hands into fists in his pockets. 

Liam jumps out with his head hanging down. Louis would think he hadn’t heard him if it wasn’t for the rigid line of his shoulders and the white knuckles curled around his car keys. 

This is bloody ridiculous, he thinks. They’ve never fought like this, and he feels completely off-kilter.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it seems that they’re going to be stuck at a standstill otherwise. 

Finally, Liam raises his head. His eyes are puffy. Louis feels like absolute dirt. 

“I’m sorry, Li. I shouldn’t have—“

“No,” Liam says finally, effectively shutting him up. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did, I was just—“

“What are you talking about, I acted like a—“

“It’s Soph,” Liam says. Just like that, the trees fall silent around them. “We’re—it’s not good. It’s shit, really, and I don’t know how to fix it, and I took it all out on you yesterday. Louis, I…”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis murmurs, and he’s moving before he can make a conscious decision to do so. 

They meet right in the middle of the parking lot, Louis’s arms around Liam’s shoulder, Liam’s arms around his waist, and an endless chorus of _I’m sorry_.

“I didn’t know,” says Louis, rubbing Liam’s back over his jacket. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“I know,” Liam says. “I know, I. I was hoping that if I didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be real.” 

Louis had felt awful walking down here, knowing full well that this was his fault, but there had been a little spark of anger lying dormant within him, ready to become a fire should he need it. Now, as Liam trembles in his arms and hugs him just a little unsurely, it’s gone. 

“God, I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand through Liam’s hair. “Is it—is it, you know?” 

“It’s real this time,” Liam nods. He and Sophia have gone through more breakups than Louis could count, but they always came back together. It’s one of the laws of the universe, at this point: the Earth rotates around the Sun, speed equals distance over time, and Liam and Sophia always find their way back to each other. “We’ve not—we’re still together, I think, but she’s been telling me that we need to talk, and I keep running from her.”

“Maybe you can fix it still,” Louis suggests, though judging by the state Liam is in, it already seems unlikely. “Maybe you’ll talk through it.” 

“Maybe,” Liam agrees, even as he shakes his head. Louis feels a couple of tears on the side of his neck, bleeding into his collar, but he doesn’t mention them. 

“I’m still sorry,” he says. “I acted like a complete twat, and there’s just no excuse.” 

“There is,” Liam says, and pulls away. His eyes are wet, but he’s clearly latched on to Louis’s words, and there’s a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “I knew you would dream too big once you got back up on a horse. I should’ve told you about Ellie before she came.” 

Louis freezes. “What are you talking about?” 

Liam raises an eyebrow, and just—looks. Waits for Louis to figure it out. 

“You know,” he breathes finally, tentatively. “You—you know.” 

Liam nods. His eyes are kind, like Louis deserves that after the scene he caused yesterday. 

“I do,” he says. “Of course I do. I broke Harry’s bloody standard so you’d get a little while alone and _try_.” 

“How—” Louis breathes, entirely overwhelmed. He remembers, instantly, how doing a few wonky rounds around the hall felt like being on top of the world. 

“I heard you talking to the horses,” Liam smiles. He checks that his car is locked, then offers Louis his elbow, more out of habit than necessity. Louis takes it. 

“When we went to get Marshmallow that morning. You weren’t exactly quiet, you know.” 

Louis keeps his gaze down, watching where he steps, and holds on to Liam’s arm much tighter than necessary. “But I thought—I thought for sure you’d say no if I asked.” 

They take a shortcut through the paddock, frosty grass crunching underneath their feet. A few of the horses are moving up on the hill, Marshmallow’s white coat sticking out in the darkness. Liam takes a second to smile in their direction before he says anything. 

“I was going to,” he admits. “But you’re just—I’ve never met anyone who loves doing this more than you do. If there’s a chance, you deserve to take it, and I couldn’t possibly stand in your way.” 

“I could get hurt again,” Louis says softly. “I won’t make it back into the races, but even here—I could fall, or fuck my knee up for good.” 

Liam shudders a little. Louis isn’t convinced it’s from the cold. 

He stops, and Louis stops with him. There’s a hint of the sunrise on the horizon, dark blue sky giving way to bright orange, promising a cold, sunny day. They watch it for a few minutes, and Louis lets Liam find the words. 

Finally, he sighs. “You could,” he says. “You probably will, because that’s how these things go, but I’m not your parent. I’m your friend, and I know how much you need this.” 

Louis exhales. His breath turns into fog, and the breeze throws it back in his face. “I do,” he admits. “I do need it.” 

He’s needed it all this time, and it’s within reach now. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t go and take it. 

“I know you do,” Liam says, squeezing his shoulder. “So tell you what. Take a couple of days to wrap your head around it, then we’ll find you a horse to work with, and we’ll start getting you back into shape next week.” 

Louis’s heart picks up pace, fluttering in his chest. God. _God_. 

“We?” he asks, more than a little breathless. 

Liam gives him a shrewd look. “I’m going to supervise, obviously.” 

Louis would probably give him shit if it were any other conversation, but as it is, all he can do is grin until his cheeks hurt. 

“Thanks,” he says, and follows after Liam when he takes off towards the house. He’s freezing, but the happy skip of his heart is stubbornly keeping his warm. 

_God_ , he thinks again as he looks up at the sky. He’s really doing this.

*

Liam wastes no time, and gets Harry’s permission to train with whichever horse he chooses before the week is out. He and Louis agree on a mare named Heather, a tall, calm palomino that works reasonably well under saddle.

Getting back on a horse properly is, of course, dangerous business. Louis figures he’s fine not telling his doctor for a while, but he feels awful keeping it from Niall, and ends up spilling the beans five minutes into their next session. 

Niall is—displeased. 

“You weren’t even supposed to walk in the first place,” he says, looking out of the window with his arms crossed. “Not that—I love that you’re making progress, I really do, but this is all kind of,” he waves a hand around, narrowly avoiding smacking himself in the nose, “sudden. Last I heard you’d given up on riding forever.” 

Louis sighs. He lies back down on the mat, medicine ball sitting heavy in the middle of his chest. 

“Come with us,” he says, not sure why, but it makes sense when he thinks about it. “Come see me train next week, and you can tell me if I’m fucking up my knee forever. I’ll pay you.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Niall snorts, and doesn’t even think about it before he says: “I’ll come. I want a limo, though.” 

Louis grins. “You’ve got it.”

*

“Do you have a jockey, then?” Louis hears Niall ask, all the way on the far end of the hall. He’s just executed a perfect diagonal, but Liam is too preoccupied with answering questions to even tell him so much as a ‘well done’.

“Amazing, Louis,” he mumbles under his breath, turning Heather down the short side and then towards where Niall’s blond head sticks out of the semi-darkness. “Fantastic, Louis. Flawless movement. You’re the best rider in the world.” 

“A toddler could do a walking diagonal, Louis,” Liam says once he’s reached them, a knowing look on his face. “How’s the knee feel?” 

“Yeah, Louis,” Niall grins, clearly in good spirits. “How’s the knee?” 

Louis leans back to stop his horse. The weather’s good, and his leg has been relatively quiet so far. He’s still got a half hour in the saddle ahead of him, though, and he suspects that it’s going to be a different story by the end. 

“Fine,” he answers, rolling his ankle and flexing the muscles in his thigh. He doesn’t find it in himself to move his knee – he’s clutching onto the horse a little too hard, still trying to quench that little flutter of panic in his stomach whenever Heather sidesteps a little too quickly. 

Liam’s going to tell him to drop the irons any minute now. He’s trying not to think about it yet. 

“Good,” Niall nods, hopping over the fence to check that it feels normal to the touch. Louis could do that himself, he supposes, but he’s a little too scared of upsetting his balance this early on. “Is this the usual angle it’s at?” 

Louis looks down at him, frowning. “I suppose,” he says. “I usually wear the stirrups a little lower when I’m riding, and then when I race—“ he grimaces, “raced, they’d be all the way up here,” he taps the leather of the saddle right around where his knee is. “It’s a crouch more than anything.” 

Niall nods. Heather looks at him when he steps away, stretching to mouth at the bottom hem of his shirt. 

“Well,” he shrugs, and scratches her on the ear, “seems alright so far. Long as you don’t actually race, I guess you’ll be fine.” 

Louis smiles, trying to inject it with just the right amount of _I told you so_ , but his mind is stuck on Niall’s words. 

_As long as you don’t actually race._

__That’s the plan, after all – to get Louis back into shape for trail rides, get his leg strong enough so that he can handle himself on a horse.

That’s the bloody _plan_. Thinking it’s anything more is a road he desperately doesn’t want to travel. 

He’s starting to think this is a character flaw he hadn’t noticed before – wanting more than he can have. It’s happened with Harry, and it’s happening right now, as he sits on an actual horse with no pain whatsoever, and still thinks about Marshmallow running over the finish line with a faceless jock on her back and burns with jealousy. 

He wouldn’t have even dreamed of this a couple of months ago. When did it stop being enough? 

“Let’s try hand on hip,” Liam decides once Niall is back next to him. “You’re a little off-balance.” 

No shit. “I hate hand on hip,” Louis whines, mostly to be a twat. 

“Sure you do,” Liam replies, smiling. He’s been smiling all day, really. It’s a little disconcerting. “Off the short side, let’s go.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

He pushes Heather into a trot, guiding her into a figure eight, left hand on his hip. It’s been years since the last time he did this, but he falls into it easily enough, feeling his shoulders relax. 

Liam keeps his eyes on him for a while, but once he’s in a rhythm, he turns back to Niall again. 

“I was thinking Ellie,” Louis hears him say, his voice carrying easily underneath the tall ceiling. “She’s qualified, and she’s been working her for quite a while. I’ll just have to convince her to go back to pro racing.” 

Louis isn’t jealous. He’s not. 

“ _Pro_ racing?” Niall asks with a laugh in his voice, ignoring Louis as he trots by. “I thought your horse had never been in a race before.” 

Louis executes a less than stellar turn. He’s supposed to be paying attention to the horse, he knows, but it’s difficult to help himself. 

“She hasn’t,” Liam says, and Louis can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “But she will. We’re going to try and class her up in the next few months, it’s a bit of a stretch, but I think she can do it.”

“I have no idea what any of that means, mate. Will I see her on the telly?” 

“I’m sure you will.” 

Louis gets a stitch in his side from all the posting he’s doing, and decides to walk a couple of rounds. He’s horrifically out of shape, panting like a basset hound, which must be why the universe picks that particular moment to send in Harry. 

He opens the door just a crack and peeks in, like he usually does. Louis has a perfect view of his curly head, the humongous scarf wrapper around his neck, and the beautiful smile that’s lighting up his face. In Louis’s humble personal opinion, he’s kind of begging to be kissed. 

Louis might be a bit biased, though. 

“Hello,” he chirps, nodding to Liam and Niall when they turn to him. “Everything alright?” 

“Yep,” Louis calls from the back of the hall, where he’s stopped to do a few half circles because his trainer is absolutely useless. 

Harry’s eyes snap to him immediately, and Louis realises that this was an incredibly stupid thing to do. He’d wanted Harry’s attention, like he always does when he sees him enter a room, but now that it’s on him it makes him uncomfortably hot under the collar of his old riding jacket. Harry has never seen him on a horse, he realises a minute too late. 

“Hi Louis,” Harry says, bright and lovely and only a little bit fake. They’ve both been making a valiant effort to pretend that nothing ever happened. 

“Hey,” Louis greets back, and turns his horse to walk down the middle of the floor. Not something that he’s normally supposed to do, but it gets him to Harry faster. “She’s lovely,” he says once he’s reached him, close enough to see the little moles on Harry’s face, and pats Heather on the neck. “Just the kind of horse I need, I think. Thanks for—you know. Letting us do this.” 

Harry’s eyes seem to be sparkling in the low light, and his gaze travels from Louis’s face down to his waist, his thighs, his knees. 

“You’re wearing them,” he says, so quiet Louis almost doesn’t catch it. He bites his lip right after, like maybe he hadn’t meant to let it slip. 

Louis’s heart does a painful little somersault. He smiles. “Of course I am,” he replies, just as quiet. 

In his periphery, he can see Liam and Niall watching them with matching calculating expressions. 

“That’s—nice. Good,” says Harry, hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing a muddy pair of wellies, probably just coming in from a walk around the paddock, and his cheeks are a deep red. The sight of him makes Louis feel too big for his own skin. 

There’s a silence that lasts just a beat too long, because Louis, self-declared master of wit, doesn’t know what to say. 

“Anything you needed, Harry?” Liam asks, sweeping in with a pleasant smile. “We won’t be long, I think Louis has just about had enough.” 

“Hey—“

“Yes, actually,” Harry says. “Just wanted to let you know that there’s dinner in the house, if you’d like. Niall is invited as well, of course,” he smiles in his direction.

Niall who, as far as Louis knows, lives off of work accomplishments and ramen noodles, perks up immediately. 

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, we’d love dinner. Yes. We’ll be there.” 

“Great,” Harry laughs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. Louis is still sitting there motionless, clutching his reins and taking in every subtle movement of his body. “Good. See you soon, then.” And he turns to Louis after that, just Louis, and looks him right in the eye. “Bye, Lou,” is what he says. 

“Bye,” Louis replies, chest tight. 

Liam gives him a look as soon as the door slides shut. 

“Piss off,” Louis tells him, and trots to the other end of the hall.

*

Once Liam has sent off Marshmallow’s applications – for meetings in Uttoxeter, Southwell, Ludlow, and a whole bunch of other maiden fixtures – he decides it’s time to take Harry to the races. As posh as his family is, he’s never been, and he’s immediately excited about the idea.

Louis himself doesn’t feel too sure, but he supposes that once he’s in the car and halfway down the M40, it’s a bit too late to back out. 

He’s managed to snag his usual shotgun seat even though Liam had glared at him. He’s currently squished between the door and Harry’s gigantic head, stuck between their seats like an excited labrador as he chats to Liam.

He’s not subtly sniffing Harry’s hair, because that would be creepy.

“Where is it that we’re going again?” Harry asks, voice rumbling in the enclosed space.

“It’s a surprise,” Louis says, but Harry doesn’t even have time to turn to him before Liam rolls his eyes.

“Cheltenham,” he replies, because he’s no fun at all. 

Harry blinks. The sun slanting in through the window draws his profile in incredible detail, his eyes a clear green. 

“ _Really_? We’re going to the Festival?” 

“Yep,” Liam grins contendedly. He’s been humming along to the radio, and tapping his fingers against the wheel, and opening the window every time they slow down just to stick his arm out like an idiot. It’s been ages since he’s been to the races, and it’s plain to see how much he’s missed it. 

Louis, staring straight out at the road, feels the odd man out. He can’t stop bouncing his bloody leg and picking at the pills on his coat. The last time he was anywhere near a race almost killed him – he thinks he’s allowed to entertain some mild anxiety.

They get to Cheltenham just after ten, following the procession of cars through town and into Swindon. Liam makes sure to display his red sticker proudly as they weave through the car park, and Harry practically vibrates with how thrilled he is. The sun’s followed them on their way North, the sky a gorgeous blue. 

“Wonderful day for the races,” Liam comments once he’s found an empty spot and manoeuvred into it. “Should be a good one this year.” 

“Who’s running?” Harry asks, all but jumping out of the car. Louis follows at a more sedate pace, taking everything in. The air is thick with dozens of different scents, food and turf and the ever-present smell of horses. It wraps around him like a blanket, soothing him until he feels a little less frazzled. 

“Lots of horses,” Liam grins, already waving hello to someone. “Coneygree, Lord Windermere, Martello Tower…Simon’s got three in the running, but his new trainer is shit.” 

Harry’s startled into a laugh. “Ouch,” he says, wrapping an arm around Liam’s shoulder and pulling him forward. 

Liam shrugs. “I was much better,” he says. “Not to toot my own horn or anything.” 

It’s the kind of thing Louis is used to hearing from him, but there’s a bit of hesitation behind the words – it’s been a while since he sent Marshmallow’s applications in, but there have been no replies so far. Louis is worried she won’t make the cut, too, but if it happens, it won’t be because of Liam’s lack of ability. He’s been doing a stellar job, has trained her up much faster than Louis had expected and still kept her motivated, and he knows all this, he does, but Louis makes a mental note to tell him anyway. 

“Liam,” he frowns once they make it to the entrance, throngs of people already queuing, clouds of condensed breath hanging above their heads. “Liam, don’t tell me we’re in the tattersalls.” 

Liam looks over his shoulder, already grinning, and Louis feels dread squeeze at his stomach. “We’re in the tattersalls,” he says. Louis wants to kick him. “Thought Harry should experience the real atmosphere before he gets used to the owners’ lounge.” 

Harry lights up at that, bouncing on his feet. “I don’t know what tattersalls are,” he grins, “but I’m excited.” 

“They’re the ground enclosures,” Louis says, frowning at the sky and shuffling forward as the queue moves. “With _no seats_.” 

Harry turns to face him, that familiar little furrow between his eyebrows. He seems to have automatically figured out what Louis means, that his knee is already aching at the prospect of standing to watch six races in a row. He opens his mouth to say something, and Louis can’t help noticing how red his lips have gotten in the cold. 

Before he has the chance to speak, though, Liam’s eyes go wide. “We have seats!” he says, putting a panicked hand on Louis’s shoulder, as though he can’t stand Louis thinking that he’d forgotten. “I called and specifically asked for chairs, so they put us front row in the left half.” 

He points in front of him, somewhere inside the course that Louis can’t see. Regardless, he breathes out in relief. 

“Thanks,” he tells him, feeling sheepish, but Liam grins and pulls him under his other arm. Louis leans into him and looks to his left, where Harry is already beaming, looking pleased as punch. 

_He’s so beautiful_ , Louis thinks. He could reach out, right now, and touch the deep dimple in his cheek, the red tip of his nose. He could, but—he can’t. 

Sod it, Louis is supposed to be getting _over_ this. He’s gone through it in his head no fewer than a million times, looked at it from every possible angle, and always arrived at the same conclusion: this isn’t meant to happen. 

His heart still breaks a little every time he remembers. 

He catches Harry’s eye, and Harry holds his gaze. His smile has softened around the corners of his mouth, turned more intimate, like despite the crowd of people around them, Harry is only smiling for Louis.

Liam pulls them both forward before Louis can smile back. It takes another twenty minutes before they hand in their tickets, but then they’re _in_.

The very first breath Louis takes on the other side of the gate rushes through his veins like a drug, has goosebumps rising on his arms and his heart racing. The adrenaline is almost palpable in the air, rising off the spectators milling about and the few horses already walking in the parade ring. It hits him square in the chest like a punch, how much he’s missed all of it. 

Liam has ducked out and ran ahead, already spotting someone he wants to talk to, and Louis is left standing beside Harry, both of them looking around. 

“There aren’t as many hats as I thought there would be,” Harry says, and when Louis looks up at him, he’s pouting. 

“Cheltenham’s not that poncey, unfortunately,” Louis says, eyeing Harry’s black coat and posh shirt and dress trousers. He looks incredible as always, and not at all out of place even in the tattersall crowd. “Fancy dress is optional.” 

“Oh,” Harry breathes. He looks disappointed, and Louis wants nothing more than to go on his tiptoes and kiss his cheek. 

“I’m sure you’ll see one or two,” Louis tries to comfort him, wrapping a hand around his elbow for just a second. “If you don’t, I promise I’ll take you to the Ascot one day. Hats everywhere you look.” 

“You promise?” Harry asks, biting down on a smile. 

“I promise.” 

“Good,” he replies, grinning wide and clapping his hands together. He takes off through the dense crowd, and Louis has to struggle to keep up. “I’ll hold you to it.” 

Finding their seats turns out to be more difficult than anticipated, and through the long minutes it takes them to locate Liam and sit down, Louis doesn’t look around him once. His eyes are glued to Harry: to the delighted quirk of his mouth when he spots jockeys already in their colours walking around the back, and the spring in his step even as the soft grass gets his expensive shoes all muddy. He’s lit up, _glowing_ , and he makes everyone’s heads turn as he gently shoulders through the crowd. 

He loves it here; it’s plain to see in every soft feature of his face, and Louis is happy, _so happy_ even though his heart keeps breaking. Harry belongs here. 

He belongs, and soon enough everyone is going to know his name.

*

“Which one is he again?” Harry asks, taking a dainty sip of his pint. He’s squinting at the starting line, already strung up, and the fidgety horses walking around behind it.

“Fourteen,” Louis and Liam say simultaneously. They’re both clutching the railing and leaning over it, straining to see Tic Tac’s slim silhouette against the darkening sky. 

Louis has been having a surprisingly good time, but now, seeing someone else in the starting field with _his_ horse, he feels a little too hot under the collar. 

“He’s pretty,” Harry comments, smiling. The sunset paints a blush on his skin, makes his hair shine golden. “Not sure about the colour combination, though.” 

He’s not wrong – Simon has picked new silks, a hideous dusty pink combined with indigo. They hurt Louis’s eyes even though he can barely see them. 

“Nobody’s going to care about that,” says Liam. “He can outrun all of these horses.” 

Louis isn’t so sure. He’d tried to avoid racing completely up until a few months ago, but he never could help checking up on Tic Tac’s rating. His season has been, to put it nicely, absolute shit.

He’s standing against a dozen mediocre horses now, the kind with faceless jockeys and vaguely familiar names that he used to leave behind in the dust. He’s the favourite to win, but there’s no challenge in this, and Louis knows even before the bell sounds that Simon’s not going to be pleased with this one. 

Kieren starts him out well enough, tight on the rein and on to the first hurdle at a gallop, and they keep the lead for almost half the race. Liam’s got his hand curled into a fist, biting the back of it, so excited because he considers Tic his, Louis knows, no matter what the papers say.

Even Harry’s put his drink down, hands wrapped around the rail and gone white at the knuckles. 

“Come on, Tic Tac,” he mumbles, probably not even aware of it, and ignores the wind whipping his hair in his face as he bounces on the balls of his feet, _ooh_ s and _aah_ s with the rest of the crowd. There’s a bit of a tumble on the third hurdle, a couple of horses tripping but getting right back up, and his concerned frown nearly makes Louis cry. 

He’s a nervous wreck by hurdle six. Tic is still fighting, Louis can tell, trying to get ahead late like they’ve trained him to, but his potato sack of a jockey is all but sitting down in the saddle and holding him back. Louis has half a mind to grab Harry’s beer and throw it at him first chance he gets. He’s sitting on a bloody good horse, lucky enough to be racing at all, and he’s sabotaging his own chances. What an absolute _turd_.

“What is he doing?” he asks Liam, hoping for a nugget of trainerly wisdom, but Liam only shakes his head, equally clueless. 

With Kieren holding him back, Tic Tac finishes fifth. The seats around them are filled with complaining and ripped betting tickets in no time at all. 

They’re almost close enough to touch the horses after they all run in on the final sprint; for a second, Louis entertains the thought of jumping the railing and marching right in to comfort his horse. He’s heaving now, struggling to breathe as he stands with his head bent low, tongue weakly twisting in his mouth, no doubt trying to lick at the sore corners of his mouth. He looks so thin, too, just this side of skinny over muscular. He’s just— _wrong_. Like whoever is in charge of training left him to fend for himself, ride out his name for another season before Simon gets rid of him. 

The thought alone makes Louis inexplicably angry. 

Harry breaks him out of his trance with a soft hand on his shoulder. “Louis? Are you going too?” 

Louis shakes himself. Kieren has dismounted, and a stable lass is carefully leading Tic away. 

“Going where?” 

Harry looks concerned when Louis meets his eyes, looking between the track and Louis’s face. “In through the owners’ entrance. Liam said he needed to talk to someone.” 

Shit. 

“He can’t get in,” Louis replies, already on the move, even though he knows that Liam can, and he will. He’s the most straight-faced liar Louis has ever met. 

“He seemed pretty set on it,” Harry points out, struggling to keep up. 

“We’ve got to stop him,” says Louis, already imagining the reprise of _Liam Punches Simon In the Face_ , except with an alternate ending that involves course security and Liam’s training license being revoked. “Did he look angry?” 

As he pokes out his elbows and steps on feet, he silently curses himself for not paying attention. Liam must have been thinking the same things as Louis was, and it must have been awful to see months of careful training undone in less than two minutes. 

“I’m not sure,” Harry says. “He was frowning, but he seemed really calm.”

He sounds further away than before. Louis risks turning around and finds him carried a ways away by the leaving crowd. 

_Fuck it_ , Louis thinks, heart already racing, and reaches out for Harry’s hand. 

Two things happen at the same time: 

One, Harry reaches right back. There’s a grin on his face, and his fingers slot between Louis’s warm and sure and so excruciatingly right. 

Two, somebody’s briefcase hits Louis square in the knee. 

He stumbles, throwing out his other arm to keep his balance, and Harry is right by his side to offer his jacket sleeve for Louis to hold on to.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” he hisses, conscious of the children around him, but also too dizzy with the pain to care. “Ow, fuck.” 

There are spots dancing in front of his eyes, rapidly changing colours, and his stomach does a violent somersault. He tries to focus on those things instead of his leg, throbbing like it used to months ago after Niall would put him through a particularly grueling physio session. 

“Louis,” Harry calls, running a hand over Louis’s cheek, his forehead, “Lou, you okay? Does it hurt still?” 

Louis nods, out of energy to pretend otherwise. 

“Can you go find Liam?” he asks, still clutching Harry like a lifeline while he shuffles them out of the way and against a wall. He almost manages to ignore the fact that Harry has leaned back and pulled him into his chest, his shoulder nudged under Louis’s arm and lifting him up, taking the pressure off his leg. “He’s got to—just tell him to stop and think about it for a second, yeah? We’ve got a race coming up, he can’t afford to do anything stupid.” 

Harry looks down at him, hair wild. “I’m not leaving you here,” he says immediately, sounding horrified at the suggestion. “You’d get trampled, Louis. No offense.” 

Louis pulls together a breathy, painful little laugh. “None taken. You’ll have to carry me though, you know.”

He’s not cheating. He’s _not_. This is not a case of him pretending to be a damsel in distress. He genuinely can’t walk. 

_Sure you can’t_ , a voice pipes up in his head, and it sounds suspiciously like Niall. Louis ignores him and focuses back on Harry’s face, where the slightest flicker of hesitation appears and fades again. 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he grins, the little shit. “Would you prefer to sit on my shoulders, or is a piggyback okay?” 

“Shut up,” is Louis’s contribution to this round of repartee. He’s too busy keeping himself together, because a) his knee feels like it’s shattered into pieces, and b) he’s about to be as close to riding Harry as he’s ever going to get. It’s two completely different types of pain, and they both combine into this ball of fire in Louis’s stomach that drives him crazy. 

Harry smiles, kinder than Louis deserves, and crouches. Louis pulls himself up by his shoulders (broad and firm but _soft_ , so bloody soft) and settles against his back.

“Onward, my steed,” he commands through gritted teeth, trying to adjust his leg until it doesn’t feel like it’s abut to fall off. The pain has started shooting into his thigh now, but he recognises it for what it is – a phantom. 

“Yes sir,” Harry giggles, and reaches behind him to help Louis settle. He grips his calf like it’s no big deal, then moves on to Louis’s upper thighs and settles there. 

His hands are an inch away from Louis’s arse. 

That’s fine. 

Louis feels people’s stares in his back as soon as they start moving, but he can’t be bothered. He remembers his initial concern for Liam now, and files everything that Harry’s making him feel away to sort through later.

“Take a left here,” he navigates, leading Harry down a paved path behind the course stables and then up a flight of stairs. 

Miraculously, they catch up to Liam just as the security guard nods and waves him in. 

“Wait!” Louis all but shrieks, too exhausted to give a damn. This whole escapade can’t have taken more than ten minutes, but he’s just about ready to go curl up in the car and call it a day.

Not yet, though. First, there’s his idiot of a best friend. 

“Liam, wait,” he yells again, and this time Liam hears him. His eyebrows climb towards his hairline when he turns around and sees the state they’re in. 

“Louis?” he asks, slowly, like he thinks this might be a dream. “Harry?” 

“Hi,” Harry pants. His back is heaving under Louis’s chest. “Louis says you should stop and think about this for a second.” 

“Louis is here,” says Louis, but he grins anyway. “Liam, what he said.” 

“Think about what?” 

“Talking to Simon,” Louis replies. “Don’t do it. Just—leave him alone.” 

He’s intensely aware of the guard watching them, his douchey sunglasses low on his nose. He doesn’t even bother to pretend that he isn’t listening. 

“Louis,” Liam says very slowly, “I’m not going to talk to Simon. I don’t have anything to say to him.” 

Louis deflates. “What about Tic?” 

“I want to talk to his trainer,” he replies. He’s still speaking slowly, looking at Louis like he’s a particularly dense child. “Which is why I’m going in through the trainers’ entrance.” 

The owners’ and trainers’ entrance is one and the same, but Louis isn’t feeling snarky enough to point it out. 

He’s about to tell Liam they’ll go back and wait in the car, but Harry beats him to it and, hopping in place, asks:

“Can we go, too?” 

Liam tilts his head, then looks at the security guard, who nods curtly. 

“Guess you can,” Liam shrugs, and then disappears down the stairs. 

Harry makes no move to get Louis off his back, and Louis is most definitely not letting go until he has to. They walk in with their heads held high and Louis perched on Harry’s back. 

“This is so exciting,” Harry whispers. Louis wishes he could see his face. 

This section, unlike the one for the general public, is still bustling. There’s the vets with their clipboards, a couple of jockeys with silks untucked and, laid out in front of them like a sea of ill-fitting suits, mingle the owners. There’s champagne and hors d’oeuvres and handshakes – this is a prime opportunity for rubbing elbows, even for people who haven’t left much of an impression on the racing world. Louis finds it so very, intimately familiar. 

“This is your future,” he laughs into Harry’s ear. “Except you’ll wear clothes that fit, I’m sure.” 

“This is so…” Harry trails off, his hands curling tighter into Louis’s thighs. Louis valiantly attempts to hold in his moan, breathing in.

“Posh?” 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Everyone’s trying really hard to be, at least.” 

“God, don’t even tell me,” Louis starts, holding on with hands intertwined and pressed into the base of Harry’s neck. “Simon made me do this, too, right after the races. Said it would help me unwind, but I never felt more like a piece of meat.” 

They’re turning heads now, accidentally jostling people as they weave deeper into the crowd. Liam is nowhere to be seen, and most of the other faces Louis barely recognises. 

“I feel very naked,” Harry mumbles, but he sounds amused. 

“I thought you were an exhibitionist,” Louis says, patting him on the chest. “You’ve still got time to change your mind, you know. You could be a jockey instead.” 

Harry snorts, and stops to let Louis snatch a couple of salmon canapés of a passing waiter’s tray. “You said I’m too tall,” he says, and the squeeze of his hand is deliberate, this time. “Even if I wasn’t, I couldn’t.” 

“Course you could,” Louis smiles into his hair. “You already know how to ride, Liam would train you up in no time.” 

Harry doesn’t reply. The only part of him that Louis can see – the tips of his ears – goes red. 

They stop once they reach the path that leads to the stables. 

“I don’t,” Harry says, and nothing else. 

“Don’t what?” 

“Know how to ride. I don’t know how to ride.” 

Louis lets go out of pure shock. Harry releases one of his legs, then reaches up to take his hand, and bends back until Louis is standing safely. Louis barely feels any of it, because Harry— _Harry can’t ride_. 

“But you own over twenty horses,” he says when he finally finds the words, looking up into Harry’s face. The rest of his face is just as red as his ears, and the blush runs dark and delicious all the way down his neck and under his collar. “You do all the work around them, I never—“ 

Harry takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. They’re still holding hands; Louis uses the opportunity to give him a reassuring squeeze. 

“They’ve always been pets to me,” he says. “Gemma used to get riding lessons, and mum wanted me to take them too, but I’d always say no because I was scared.” There’s a wrinkle between his brows, sitting there like it has any business being on Harry’s beautiful face. “I still am, I think. They’ve just—always seemed so tall, you know?” 

Louis has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing, fond. “You said you’ve gone bungee jumping, though. That’s way scarier.” 

“Is not,” Harry says, gaze lowered and digging the toe of his boot into the grass . “Besides, that’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. I may’ve never had the chance again.” 

“Oh my God,” Louis breathes, mind reeling. The new discovery has made Harry impossibly more endearing, and sent his mind into a tailspin, too. He has no doubt that Harry would love riding once he got over his fear, that he’d look adorable and gorgeous all at the same time trying to learn how to post—

“Can I teach you?” he asks, mouth running ahead of his brain. If he’d had a second to think it through, he might have seen it for what it is – a bad idea. At the same time, though—he ‘d get to show Harry something new, something wonderful. Spend even more time with him than he already does. He can keep his bloody feelings in check. “Let me teach you, please.” 

Harry’s palm is burning against Louis’s, who is suddenly very aware of the contact. Harry doesn’t pull away, though, and neither does he. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, fidgeting. “I don’t know, it’s been years since I even tried—“ 

“That’s okay,” Louis jumps in. “We can take it as slow as you want, but you’ve got to try it, come on.” 

Riding. He’s talking about riding. 

_Horse_ riding. 

“I’ll be a great teacher, I promise.” 

Hesitation is written plainly all over Harry’s face, but there’s a smile, too – one of Louis’s favourite kinds, where only one corner of Harry’s mouth lifts and his dimple pops. 

“That’s the second thing you’ve promised today,” he says. Louis could swear he feels his fingers tighten around the back of his own hand. 

“I’ll deliver,” he says, grinning but entirely serious. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

Harry cracks, his smile turning into a full-blown giggle. He takes a breath, then another, and looks at Louis with soft eyes. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “Teach me how to ride.”

*

They’re still holding hands when Simon hunts them down.

Louis has been hoping to avoid him for the past half hour, ducking through the crowd and pulling Harry in to talk to anybody whose face looks familiar. His bloody knee is still in pain, though, and he eventually has to break away to lean against something – the stable wall, in this case. Simon takes exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds. 

“Louis,” he says once he’s standing in front of them in his boxy-haired glory. He doesn’t acknowledge Harry at all, and Louis wishes there was dirt nearby that he could throw in his face. 

“Simon,” he forces out through clenched teeth. The very sight of him makes Louis want to physically fight him, but this is not the place. “It’s nice to see you.” 

Harry squeezes hand. Louis feels so grateful he could cry. 

“Mr Cowell,” he inserts himself into the conversation, a flawless fake smile bright on his face and reaching out for a handshake. “I’m Harry Styles. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“I’m sure you have,” Simon replies, shaking his hand like it’s something he’s just picked up off the ground. 

“What brings you here?” Louis asks, intent on keeping the two of them apart. He’s experienced how truly nasty Simon can get, and while Harry can hold his own, he shouldn’t have to. Not when this is supposed to be something exciting. 

Simon looks him up and down in silence, lingering on his and Harry’s joined hands. The calculating look in his eyes makes Louis shiver. 

“I just wanted to congratulate you,” he says finally, smiling a smile that only shows his bottom row of teeth. He reminds Louis of an eel. “On your…speedy recovery.” 

His knee twinges. “Thank you,” he replies, not meaning a word. He’s tired and in pain and feeling spiteful. “I’m sure it came as a surprise, seeing as you never cared to call me and ask how I was doing.” 

Beside him, Harry sucks in a surprised breath. 

Simon doesn’t let anything show on his face, but Louis can see his hands curling into fists where they’re jammed in his pockets. 

“You know how it goes,” he says, shrugging. Louis squeezes Harry’s hand and tries to keep himself grounded. “We get very busy after the National, especially if something happens to generate headlines.” 

“Sure,” Louis nods. He hates this game, hates pretending that they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats if such a thing was acceptable in polite company. He’s had an inkling, ever since he first woke up at the hospital, about how his saddle ended up breaking despite numerous inspections. He wants to voice his thoughts now, just come right out and ask, but somewhere deep down, he already knows the answer. It’s right there in Simon’s eyes, plain to read in the distasteful look he’s leveled Louis with. 

Louis hates him; hates him more than words could ever express. 

Harry must read his mind, or feel him shaking. He pulls Louis closer to him, and picks up the conversation. “I’m sorry to hear about Tic Tac, Mr Cowell. It looked like a promising race.” 

Simon scratches his nose. “These things happen,” he says. “He’s getting old, unfortunately. They can’t keep running forever.” 

“He’s six,” Louis mumbles. 

“As I said,” crows Simon, “old. I don’t think you’ll see him on the courses next season, Mr Styles.” 

Louis lets himself look at Harry’s face. He wishes he was a little stronger, a little more capable of dealing with the devil that is Simon Cowell, so he could get them both out and away from here. 

Harry flawlessly pretends to be aloof, politely interested, though his palm is sweating against Louis’s. 

“Will he be retiring?” he asks.

Simon raises his eyebrows, a condescending smile on his face. “We don’t have room for that, unfortunately. You have to understand, the Cowell stable prides itself on raising horses that are ahead of the crowd, and we dedicate all our resources to them. We will be sending Tic Tac away, as is standard practice.” 

Louis’s heart aches. He and Tic fought their way to the first class races together, both young and unknown and determined to get to the finish line. Now Simon’s gotten rid of Louis, and he’s ready to discard the horse, too. 

“These decisions are hard, Mr Styles, as I’m sure you’ll soon find out for yourself,” he’s saying, hands clasped behind his back now. “You currently have a horse in training, do you not?” 

“I do,” Harry nods, slow and thorough. “But I don’t plan on abandoning her if she doesn’t do well.” 

Simon takes the dig in stride. “A filly? That’s very brave of you.” 

“Mare, actually,” Harry smiles. “She’s very good. I’ll look forward to her facing off with your horses next year.” 

Louis bites his lip to hide a smile. God, he loves Harry. 

“I’m just trying to warn you,” Simon says. Louis can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to find another backhand insult to throw at Harry. He can’t try to put down Liam, at least, because every single Cowell horse thrived under his training. “I’m sure you love your horse, but there will come a time when you see her slow down and give up. You won’t even be able to bet on her anymore.” 

He pats his breast pocket, where his wallet probably sits filled to the brim. Louis feels dread pool in his stomach as he realises the implications. 

Kieren rode like an idiot on purpose. 

“How many deals did you make, then? Who else got rich off you destroying your own horse’s reputation?” he asks, suddenly unable to keep his mouth shut. 

Simon’s face is blank. Louis wonders if he has any conscience at all, if he’s ever felt anything close to regret. 

“I’m certain you realise that this is private information,” he says, pleasantly condescending. “If you have no other questions, I think I’m going to go back to my sponsors. It was a pleasure to see you, Louis, Mr Styles.” 

And he turns their back to them just like that, seemingly content to have the last word. 

Louis frowns. It’s not like Simon to come up to him just to rile him up a little. Everything is a power play for him; if he talks to someone, it’s usually to make sure that he has the upper hand and all parties know it. 

Still, he squeezes Harry’s hand and moves to leave, happy to escape, but he’s not quick enough. Simon catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and turns around, looking rather like a large cat about to pounce. 

He looks at both of them, then down to their joined hands; his eyes are slate grey and cold. Dead. 

“Congratulations, by the way. Guess we know why this is the only sport you were ever good at .” 

He turns around, then, and disappears in the crowd.

Louis lets go.

*

“He did _what_?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Louis replies, blowing on his tea. “It wasn’t even mean, I just—I was taken aback.” 

“He had no right,” Liam frowns at the sign in his hands, and pulls his sleeve down to polish it. “What an absolute _dick_ , I can’t believe I didn’t punch him when I had the chance—“ 

“Calm down,” Louis butts in, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze Liam’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Was fine. Harry was lovely about it, I didn’t even feel bad afterwards.” 

Liam sighs. There’s a frown settled on his forehead that’s been there since the morning, his eyebrows a straight line. Louis should have never brought up Simon, not when they’ve all got so much to deal with already. 

“You sure?” he asks, looking into Louis’s eyes like he’s searching for a lie. “Because I can—“ 

“I’m sure,” Louis smiles. He feels suspiciously tranquil, even though the air around him is practically dripping with nerves. Everyone’s trying hard, here. “You don’t have to fight anyone for me. Relax.” He takes a step to close the distance between them, and forces himself under one of Liam’s arms until he’s curled into his side. “And stop polishing that, please. It’s just plastic.” 

“It’s important,” Liam grins, seemingly satisfied that Louis is okay. “It’s our first one.” 

Louis has to give him that. He can’t deny the warm, overwhelming pride he feels when he looks at it. 

_Girl Almighty_ , it says, in plain blocky letters on a black background. _L. J. Payne/H. Styles._ It’s cheap and dirty already, but it looks so good, so right in Liam’s hands. This is where everything really starts, and they’re all as ready as they could ever be.

“I still think we should have kept her name,” Louis says, just to keep himself from blurting out something much mushier. “Marshmallow races to the finish. Marshmallow in the lead. Marshmallow clears every hurdle without a stumble and wins the Grand National.”

Liam laughs. “It’s too silly for the big races,” he says. “Besides, it should be a special name. Something only her friends call her, even when she’s the most famous race horse in England.” 

Marshmallow, half listening to them and half drifting off in her stall, neighs. 

“Is that right, lovely?” Louis asks, reaching in and petting her neck. She feels warm and relaxed, completely unbothered even as the stalls around her shake with impatient stomping. “Are you going to be famous?” 

She raises her head, bumping her nose against Louis’s palm. He can’t resist leaning in and dropping a kiss there. 

In the meantime, Liam decides to listen Louis’s advice and stops fussing with the sign. He puts it, instead, back where it belongs – on the wall right beside the stall, hanging proudly. It’s the nicest one by far, in Louis’s humble opinion. The ones around them boast names like _Gold Nugget_ and _Blue Baron_ and _Red Velvet_ , a touch too silly to be taken seriously. 

It’s less than two hours until the bell, and Louis is beyond excited. Today is monumental, and he’s certain they’ll be going home in good spirits tonight. 

“I’ve got to go find Olly,” Liam says. They’ve taken him on as a stable lad, and he’s been doing a great job, but he also seems to have a propensity for disappearing whenever he’s not needed. “If Ellie comes back, tell her to wait here, I need to talk to her.” 

“You’ve got it, boss,” Louis replies, and ruffles his hair before he goes. 

Marshmallow rumbles when she hears Ellie’s name. Louis would like to think he’s not jealous anymore. 

“That’s right,” he tells her, grinning when she butts her head against his chest. “Ellie’s gone to weigh in, but she’ll be back, and then the two of you are going to win the whole thing.”

She closes her eyes, looking pleased. Louis leans against the stall door, breathes in deep, and sips his tea. 

Harry finds him after Marshmallow has already been led out, barely fifteen minutes until start, red-cheeked and excited. He’s gone all out with his clothes – not that Louis expected anything else – and he looks like an absolute dream when he stops in front of Louis with a wide grin on his face. Louis doesn’t try to resist poking his dimple. 

“I brought you another tea,” Harry says, holding out a steaming cup. It’s much bigger than the one Louis bought in the restaurant earlier, the kind that they only sell in the owners’ lounge. 

_I love you_ , Louis nearly blurts out, but he catches himself at the last second. 

“Thank you,” he says instead, and wraps his gloved hands around the cup. Their hands brush. “I’m bloody freezing.” 

“It’ll all be over soon,” Harry grins, full of nervous energy. 

“Don’t say it like that,” Louis grins back. “We’re only just starting out.” 

Harry starts walking, tilting his head in question, and Louis follows him without a word. He feels warm just looking at the lanky silhouette of him, the tails of his coat billowing in the wind. He could be in the owners’ lounge, with windows and seats and heating, sipping on a drink, but instead he’s down here with the rest of them, watching the horses line up from the ground. 

The race itself is little more than a blur. It’s a short course, one and a quarter miles and a few poorly constructed brush fences. Ellie is on top of her game, crouched in the stirrups and focused, looking ahead. 

When the starting line falls, Harry hops in place, and Louis misses the horses take off because he’s busy looking at his face. It takes superhuman effort to tear his eyes away and focus on the track, but once he’s looking, Marshmallow is easy to spot. She’s in the middle of the pack, shining like a beacon of light in a sea of bays and chestnuts. Ellie’s blue and green silks are billowing in the wind, and when they clear the first fence, Louis gets a view of the triumphant smile on her face.

He’d love to be up there, flying down the track on their miracle horse. At the same time, though, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. Racing might not be for him anymore, but he’s still here, still welcome, still just as excited, part of this little family they’ve built around Marshmallow. 

The second-to-last turn sees her in third place, and Louis’s hands are shaking so much he has to set his tea down. He almost wants to cry when she sees how hard she’s fighting, overtaking the horse in front of her from the outside. He hears Ellie shout in encouragement, and feels Harry’s fingers twist into his sleeve in nervous anticipation; they clear the last fence, the crowd roars—

And Girl Almighty comes in second. 

“Oh my God!” Harry shouts, a brilliant smile on his face, hands in his hair like he’s not sure what to do with them. 

Louis feels goosebumps racing down his back, a pure, bright ball of happiness that ignites in his chest. He raises his arms above his head like he’s at a football match, shouting something that he can’t quite make out. She’s done it. _They’ve_ done it. 

Before he has time to think about it, he grabs Harry’s hand, and they run. They weave through people coming down from the stands, through stable lads and lasses on their way to fetch the horses, around a handful of local reporters and a jockey who’s thrown his helmet in the mud, giggling like children the whole way. 

Louis spots Liam right by the winners’ circle, hair curling every which way and mobile pressed to his cheek. He hangs up as soon as he sees them, and instead opens his arms. Louis’s throat goes tight at the sight of the happy sparkle in his eyes, his red cheeks and the smile that looks like it hurts. He’s missed this Liam. 

“Second place!” he shouts once they’re close enough to hear, like there’s any way they could’ve missed that, and laughs when Louis crashes into him first, Harry hot on his heels. 

Louis loses track of which pair of arms belongs to whom, but he doesn’t care one bit. He joins in on Liam’s incoherent yelling, and Harry’s back pats, squeezing them both to him as hard as he can. They laugh into each other’s coats, and ignore people who try to nudge them out of the way. 

They’ve made it to the start, and there’s a whole steeplechase ahead of them. Louis couldn’t be more excited. 

In more than one way, this feels like the happiest moment of his life.

*

April brings typical English weather, with more rain than sunshine and entirely too much wind. The other meetings that accepted Marshmallow’s application are both run on turf, and the going is dangerously soft, but she finishes the first one in second, and then scores her very first win. They have Olly take a picture that now hangs in the living room right above the fireplace – Ellie and Marshmallow covered in mud, Liam beaming with dirt on his cheek, courtesy of Louis, and him and Harry with their arms around each other, on top of the world.

Louis loves the picture dearly. He suspects that Harry does too, going off the amount of times he’s caught him standing there and staring at it. 

Three good finishes, of course, means that Marshmallow gets to apply for a handicap rating. It takes a few days and about seven emails to the BHA before arrangements can be made, and Liam barely sleeps throughout all of it, but it all ends happily with him driving to Holborn and giving Marshmallow a well-deserved rest day. 

He forgets, of course, that he’d promised Louis a lesson. 

“We can do it by ourselves, can’t we,” he murmurs to Heather as adjusts her noseband. He’s been riding bitless for the past couple of weeks, just like Ellie, and he feels much more capable a rider now. He’d never realised how much control he focused into his hands until the bit was gone. “We don’t need Liam to tell us what to do.” 

He’s been moving out onto the track, little by little, yearning for the kind of speed that just can’t be reached in the hall. It’s a passably nice day today, with a grey sky but dry ground, and he’d bullied Harry into picking him up and driving him up here, wanting to take advantage of it. 

Speaking of the devil, Harry is already there when Louis leads Heather down, sitting in the grass and looking up at the sky. His eyes are closed, and Louis can’t resist tearing off a blade of grass and tickling him on the nose with it. 

“Hey,” he crows as his eyes open. He wraps his fingers around Louis’s wrist, languid, and pulls it away from his face. “That’s mean.” 

“Sorry,” Louis says, grinning, and then: “I thought you had work to do.” 

That was the excuse Harry had used, at least, when he disappeared inside right after they pulled in. 

He shrugs now, turning a pebble over in his hands. “Needed some inspiration.” 

“What is it that you do again?” Louis asks as he pulls himself into the saddle, hoping to catch him off guard. 

“I’m not telling you,” Harry grins, too smart to fall for Louis’s tactics. “You’ve got to guess.”

“I hate riddles.” 

Harry laughs. He jumps to his feet and runs a hand through his hair, settling into Heather’s slow walking pace and following them around the track. It’s adorable. 

“I forgot to ask,” he says, once they’ve gone almost half the track in comfortable silence, “how did you appointment go yesterday?” 

Louis grimaces. He doesn’t particularly want to think about his doctor’s pointed looks of disapproval. 

“She doesn’t like it,” he says, re-folding the reins in his hands. “She yelled at me for half an hour.” 

“But it’s not doing any damage, is it?” Harry asks, looking at Louis’s knee where it’s settled against the saddle. “Did she tell you to stop?” 

Louis shakes his head. “No. She said I should come in once every two weeks, though, and to book more physio.” 

“That’s not too bad then,” Harry smiles, always one to look on the bright side. “She’ll come around, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, love,” Louis smiles back, shifting his weight. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not even with Harry. His doctor is a lovely woman, and she has the patience of a saint, but the harsh way she reacted to the news of Louis riding again has been weighing on him all day. He’d been a little too caught up in this happy little bubble, thinking he’d got through the worst of it and his knee would never get screwed up again; she brought him back to earth in the most unpleasant way possible. 

Still, he’s not in pain right now. There’s no reason he shouldn’t keep going. 

He takes off in a canter, laughing at Harry’s indignant squawk when they leave him behind. Heather is going at a sedate pace as always, comfortable enough for him to post, and he does a whole round before he speeds up. 

It still feels strange, galloping with the stirrups so low, but the wind lashing at his face is as exhilarating as always. 

He stays for a bit too long, long enough for the sun to dip low in the sky, and he feels exhausted when he finally stops and decides he’s done for the day. Harry is a hunched shape in the semi-darkness, scribbling something into a notebook and _still there_ , even though it’s cold. Louis gets off the horse, stretches his legs, and, looking at him, gets an idea. 

“Hey, Harry,” he calls, soft, just loud enough to be heard over the wind in the trees and insects in the grass. 

Harry takes a while to look up, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrates. “What is it?” 

Louis smiles. “How about those riding lessons I promised you?” 

“What—“ Harry blinks, taking in their surroundings, the sun setting over the horizon, “ _now_?” 

Louis pets Heather’s nose and sneaks her a piece of carrot. “No time like the present, right?” 

Carefully, Harry sets his notebook down in the grass, then scratches at the bare skin of his knee that’s poking out of his jeans. “I’m not dressed for it,” he says. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis reassures him, leaving Heather to stand in place and coming closer. “Let’s just try getting up there today. It’s getting dark anyway.” 

“Up on the horse?” Harry asks, gulping visibly. Louis can tell he’s—worried, if not quite scared, and it makes him want to wrap Harry up in his arms and never let him go. 

“Up on the horse,” he smiles, extending a hand. “I’ve got you, come on.” 

Harry closes his eyes and breathes in. “Okay,” he says finally, letting the word out in a massive rush of breath. “Okay, let’s do it.” 

He grabs Louis’s hand and lets himself be pulled up. Louis wishes he could say that he’s used to the sparks dancing in his fingertips by now, that every time they so much as touch doesn’t render him yearning and completely helpless. It’s become such a normal thing for them, too, holding hands. Louis doesn’t want it to stop; thinks that if he gets to have this, to hold Harry’s hand and have his company and friendship and gorgeous smile, he will find a way to be happy for the rest of his life. 

“Here we go,” he says, once they’re at Heather’s side and Harry’s staring at the stirrups like they might come alive and hurt him. “I’m sure you’ve seen lots of people do this.” 

Harry nods slowly, reaching out to touch the cold metal. “Can we lower them?” 

Louis looks him in the eyes. They’ve gone almost blue in the sunset, and wide with panic. There’s still softness in them, though, that kind look that Harry always has for him, and so much trust it makes Louis’s knees a little weak. Harry trusts Louis to guide him through this, and that’s exactly what Louis is going to do. 

“Sure we can,” he says, and reaches out to undo the clasp. Harry doesn’t pull his hand away, and Louis’s fingers brush against his wrist, warm where it peeks out of his sleeve. “Here.” 

“Do I just—“ Harry starts, but he doesn’t finish, waving his arm to indicate the horse instead. Louis thinks his hands might be shaking. 

“Yep,” he smiles, trying to be reassuring. He’s only ever done this once, when he was sixteen and Lottie wouldn’t stop badgering him about getting to ride a pony. “Just put your foot in the stirrup, grab the saddle, and up you go.” 

He holds the stirrup still, waits until Harry takes a few deep breaths and then lifts his leg. He’s wearing trainers, and it takes him a couple of tries to get his foot in. 

“I’ve got to do this fast, right?” he asks, now hopping on one leg as he tries to keep his balance. Heather indulges him, standing still and calm and leaning into Louis’s shoulder. 

“You’d just drag the saddle down otherwise,” Louis nods. “You can do it, yeah?” 

He has half a mind to call this off, just stop and go inside and have a nice evening cuppa like they’d planned. Harry looks spooked, his face pale even in the warm light, hands slipping off the saddle with how much his palms are sweating. Louis reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, though what he’d really like to do is take Harry’s face in his hands and kiss him, just until the shaking has subsided. 

He doesn’t tell Harry to stop, though. He doesn’t, because his forehead is furrowed in determination, and he keeps his foot in the stirrup even though he’s swaying in place. He knows he can do this. Louis’s heart beats a little faster just looking at him. 

“On three?” he asks. “Heather’s got you, and so do I. You can do this, love.” 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, then nods. “On three,” he says, and doesn’t wait for Louis to start counting. “One, two—“ 

He pushes off just a bit too hard, nearly toppling to the other side of the horse, but the death grip he has on the saddle keeps him up. He sits down way too hard, almost startles Heather into walking, but Louis holds her in place and beams.

“There you go,” he says, watching Harry carefully while he pulls up his stirrup, and makes sure his foot sits secure inside the other one. “You did it, Harry, look at you.” 

Harry’s hands are curled into fists on his thighs, his eyes closed again, but he opens them when he hears Louis’s voice.

“My legs hurt,” is the first thing he says, a little out of breath. “Are they supposed to hurt like this?” 

“Afraid so,” Louis grins. He holds on to the reins and stays close, wrapped up in Harry’s body heat and trying his darnedest to make sure that he feels safe up there. “Wait until you get off, they’re going to feel like jelly.” 

Harry grimaces. A little bit of colour floods back into his cheeks, though, and Louis counts that as a win. 

He gives Harry a minute, petting Heather’s neck to make sure she stays calm. A minute passes, then another, in peaceful silence. Louis can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, the rasp of his breathing and Harry’s slowly falling into sync. 

“Look up, love,” he says finally, whispers. “The view’s gorgeous, I promise there’s nothing else like it.” 

Harry bites his lip, head hanging low. He’s blinking, slowly, down at where his legs meet the saddle. His arm moves, so quick Louis almost misses it – almost. He looks over, and there’s Harry’s hand, lying palm up on top of his thigh, his fingers extended towards where Louis is standing. 

Louis looks up. There Harry is, with wide eyes, biting his lip. “Please?” is all he says, and Louis all but melts. 

He takes Harry’s hand with baited breath, wrapping it up in his and running a thumb over Harry’s palm.

“Come on, then,” he smiles, and Harry smiles back. 

When he looks up and looks around, Louis feels rather like he’s watching the sun rise after a very long night. A light comes alive in his eyes, and he squeezes Louis’s hand as he turns in the saddle, this way and that, taking in the never-ending grounds bathed in yellows and oranges and reds. It’s beautiful down here, but Louis only has eyes for his gorgeous, gorgeous boy. 

_Not yours_ , Louis’s brain reminds him, but his heart keeps thudding on happily, attuned to every pleased noise, every move Harry makes. 

“This is amazing,” he says, and laughs breathlessly. Louis, as always, is arse over tit in love with him. 

“Told you,” he says, unconsciously stroking the side of Harry’s thigh with his pinkie. Harry tenses under his touch, and Louis, feeling as though he’s burned himself, pulls his hand away. “Think you can do this for real?” 

Harry blinks, a little panicked. “Today?” 

“No,” Louis laughs. “Not today, don’t worry. Another time.” 

“You’ll look out for me, right? This is safe?” 

“Course I will,” Louis says, one finger tucked under the girth to keep himself from touching again. “I promised, didn’t I?” 

Harry nods. “Another time.” 

“Good,” Louis grins. “I’ll look forward to it. Want to get off now?” 

Harry looks at the ground, suddenly reluctant. Louis is very near ecstatic to see that he’s relaxed his shoulders, and his hands are steady when he reaches out to pat Heather on the neck. 

“Sure, just—am I sitting right?” he asks, trying to move his legs back but mostly just swaying in his seat. “Gemma’s instructor used to yell at her when she didn’t.” 

It’s quite horrifying, but Harry has a grin on his face, looking Louis right in the eye – almost like he’s teasing. 

“No yelling,” Louis says, holding up his hand in a promise. “But you _could_ sit a little straighter.” 

“Too gay for that,” Harry answers. It’s a terrible joke, but he looks inordinately pleased with himself, and Louis has to bite his tongue to hold back a ridiculous giggle. 

“I can’t stand you,” he says, patting Harry’s thigh and reaching for the small of his back. “If you just—“

He trails off once he touches the fabric of Harry’s jacket, distracted by the heat radiating from underneath. He’s dangerously close to the swell of Harry’s bum, to the sliver of skin that pokes out above the waistband of his jeans. 

He presses his hand in anyway, gentle against Harry’s back right where his hunch starts, and he finds that he can’t quite look him in the eye.

“There,” he says. He sounds breathless. “It helps if you keep your shoulders back, too. Gives you better—better balance.” 

His skin is prickling now, itching, and he becomes hyperaware of just how close he’s standing. Harry’s knee is pressing into his shoulder, motionless, and the long line of his thigh is barely inches away from Louis’s face. He could just—turn his head and press a kiss there, then another one, tumble headfirst into something he can’t, _can’t_ have. Harry explained himself, and Louis promised him it was okay, but here he is—

Here he is. 

Louis steps back. His fingers are tingling; he curls his hand stubbornly into a fist and sticks it in his pocket. 

“Um,” he clears his throat, too ashamed to look Harry in the face. “You should take both your feet out of the stirrups, swing one over her back and just—“

Harry thuds to the ground before Louis is finished speaking, only stumbling a little when he realises how shaky his muscles are. 

“Like that,” he finishes, a little dumbly. Harry’s immediately taken to petting Heather, and whispering something that sounds like praises. Louis chances a look, just to make sure that he hasn’t fucked anything up permanently, that Harry hadn’t noticed his moment of absurd weakness. 

He hadn’t. 

“D’you need any help untacking her?” he asks, smiling brightly. He has no idea, it seems, and Louis has never felt more grateful. 

“Uh,” he says as he rubs his forehead, trying to make sense of his thoughts. “No, I’m good. You head on up, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“You sure?” Harry asks, eyes big and searching. “You look tired.” 

Louis grimaces. “I am,” he says, rubbing his thigh, where a familiar kind of tension has settled. He’d overdone it today, and he’ll be feeling it tomorrow. “I think I bit off more than I could chew today.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry asks again, and then another three times, until Louis puts a hand on his shoulder and physically turns him toward the house. He watches his silhouette turn into a shadow, shrinking until he disappears under the cover of darkness. 

It takes him a while to hobble up the hill and into the yard. His fingers feel too big as he opens all the clasps and tries to close them back up, and he’s got spots dancing in his vision when he tries to find Heather’s name tag in the tack room. 

He makes quick work of feeding her, then turns her out, ready to collapse into Harry’s uncomfortable posh sofa and drink an entire pot of tea. 

The house is blissfully warm when he walks in, the air wrapping around him and soothing his stinging cheeks. All the lights are on, and he can hear the fire going in the living room. 

“Harry?” he calls. 

“Up here!” Harry’s voice carries back from the first floor, distorted under the tall ceiling. Louis doesn’t particularly feel like coming up the stairs. 

“Should I put the kettle on?” he asks, getting out of his coat and automatically moving towards the kitchen, but something stops him. There’s a sound coming from upstairs, a _thud-thud-thud_ not unlike a small herd of elephants – Harry’s coming down. Or running, rather.

“No,” he pants once he makes it to the stairs, grinning and leaning over the banister. His face looks red, and his hair has gone curly around his temples. “Come up here, I drew you a bath.” 

Louis almost drops the pair of gloves he’s holding. “You what?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “A bath, Louis. A container full of very hot water that humans go in to soak off their filth. Come on, it’ll get cold.” 

“You drew me a bath,” Louis says, just to make sure he’s not hallucinating. “Up there? In your own bathroom?” 

“It’s the only clawfoot tub in the house,” he shrugs. His grin has gone a little manic around the edges, but that doesn’t stop Louis from grinning right back. “Wanted you to have the full posh experience.” 

Still bewildered, Louis abandons the thought of tea and makes his way up the staircase. Harry watches him with his hands folded behind his back, smiling and patient even thought Louis takes ages. 

He’s not entirely sure this is really happening, is all. 

“Why did you draw me a bath?” he asks once he’s standing by Harry’s side. Harry wraps an arm around his shoulders, leading Louis into his bedroom with no qualms, like it isn’t his private space, the only place in the house that Louis hadn’t seen. 

“Thought you could use one,” he shrugs, and opens the door to his en suite. “There’s nothing better than a bath after a long day, my mum says.” 

Louis would reply, but he can’t quite feel his face. This bathroom has to be the most opulent place in the house, full of creamy white tile and gold detail, dominated by an enormous tub that is, indeed, full of bubbles. Louis is a little scared of touching anything, and it takes him a second to notice the unmistakable signs of Harry in the space: hair products lined up on the sink, a smear of toothpaste in the very corner of the mirror, a few neatly lined up bottles of nail varnish in an open cabinet. 

Harry himself stands next to the tub, twisting the faucets to make sure the water is off. 

“There’s a dressing gown over there,” he says, pointing to a fluffy white item folded on top of the hamper. “And I’ve got lots of clothes you can borrow, if you don’t want to get back into these ones.” 

Louis looks down at his breeches, dirty with a good couple of weeks of wear, and hums in agreement. There are words that he’s supposed to form, he thinks, but he can’t put together anything more than a feeble “thank you”. 

Harry smiles at him anyway, and claps his hands like he’s all done here. “Enjoy then,” he says, hopping to where Louis is still frozen in the doorway. “Come find me when you’re out.” 

And, lightning fast and so soft it could just be imagination, he leans in and kisses Louis on the cheek. 

Then Louis is alone, with a tub full of bubbles and countless things on his mind. He strips without thinking about it too much, and sinks into the hot water gratefully. As soon as the warmth envelopes him, he knows that this is exactly what he needed, and Harry—Harry knew that too, somehow. 

“This is fine,” Louis murmurs, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The inside of his chest is burning, his head is spinning, and he’s up to his neck in more things than water. 

It’s fine.

*

Marshmallow’s sixth race takes place on a beautiful May day. It’s sunny, dry, with just a hint of the approaching summer in the air.

It’s also when everything goes to shit. 

It starts out well enough, with Marshmallow pulling ahead of the pack right out of the gate, sailing over fences like an old pro. She runs like she’s got a fire in her, fast and efficient despite how often she trains; she’s already moved up a class, and though Louis doesn’t keep up with the ratings, he’s willing to bet that she’ll be the best newcomer of the season. 

They’re in Ludlow today, and Harry has managed to smuggle him into the owners’ area. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder under the gorgeous white arches, barely breathing as they watch the horses sail over another fence. Two already tumbled at the very beginning, and another one just barely manages to make it over the obstacle, stumbling and sending its jockey toppling to the ground. 

Harry hisses, grimacing as he watches the horse trot on without a rider, stirrups bouncing. It’s noticeably more difficult, this race, and he’s been antsy even since he went out on the track and realised how tall the fences were. 

Louis rubs his shoulder, trying to be reassuring as he follows Marshmallow with his eyes. She’s still holding her own; she rounds the last turn barely half a length away from first place, bumping into her competitors. There’s only one obstacle between her and the final sprint, and Ellie’s pushing her forward with a steady hand. 

She falls back just a fraction, leaps along with four other horses. It’s an easy fence, made to be jumped in a nice, clean arch, and Louis is already celebrating in his head. They’ve got this in the bag. 

Except then—then time slows, like it does before an explosion in every bad action movie. The air turns to sludge in Louis’s lungs, and he watches, over the span of a quarter second, as one of the horses gets caught in the fence. The momentum throws him sideways, tripping up another horse, and another, and then, on the very edge, knocking into Marshmallow. 

She lands, but stumbles. Her legs tangle together, Louis’s heart shoots into his throat, and Ellie flies forward and over her neck in a bizarrely clean arch. She tries to twist as she falls, Louis can tell, but she doesn’t quite make it. 

Marshmallow makes it a few more steps, then stops. The rest of the horses gallop on, and leave the finish line in the dust. 

There’s an uproar on the ground, lots of cheering and betting tickets flying in the air, but everyone around Louis seems to hold their breath, completely silent; it takes him a second to register that no, actually, there’s plenty of talk, but the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears has drowned it out. 

He doesn’t realise that he’s shaking; doesn’t realise he’s folding up and sliding onto the ground until he’s sitting, leaning back against the stand with his head between his knees. 

“Louis,” Harry’s voice comes, along with a touch to his wrist, soothing like a wave rolling onto shore in a quiet night. “Louis, she’s okay. They’re both okay.” 

Louis’s heart keeps on racing. It’s loud, so loud. 

“We should—we need to go down there,” Harry says. Louis can’t quite figure out what the tremble in his voice means. Something happened, just now, but his head is spinning too much—

“Louis,” he says again. He sounds desperate. “Louis, please. I won’t leave you here alone.” 

Louis reaches out. It takes a tremendous effort, as if he were drowning and trying to keep his head above the water, but once his fingers brush against the soft wool of Harry’s coat, all this terrifying, suffocating weight lifts off Louis’s shoulders. 

A sound trickles in, and then another. Chatter, yelling, laughter, a thousand pairs of feet moving at once and making the stands rumble. And above it all, like a desperate little harmony, Harry’s breathing. 

Ellie fell. Ellie _fell_ , and Louis is sitting here panicking like a numpty—

“Lou,” Harry whines. His grip on Louis’s wrist tightens, fingers digging into flesh until Louis can feel his own heartbeat pressing against Harry’s skin. 

He looks up. Harry looks scared half to death, white as a sheet, sweat beading on his forehead. Louis’s heart gives one long, slow, agonizing _thump_ at the sight of him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, out of breath. “I’m sorry—Jesus, let’s go.” 

He keeps a hold on Harry’s fingers, slippery as they are, and on the sleeve of his coat. They’re slumped into each other when they stumble down the stairs and toward the stables, both shocked in their own ways. 

Louis feels like clawing at his own skin. He’d wanted to close his eyes as soon as he realised what was happening, but his body wouldn’t let him, made him stand there and watch. Had he looked like that, all those months ago? 

“Over here!” Liam’s voice carries to them, surprisingly loud over the general din, and he shoves his way through the crowd to lead them to their stall. 

Marshmallow is already inside, rubbed down and covered with a blanket, and a woman that Louis recognises as the course veterinarian is running curious fingers over her leg. She seems as calm as ever, though, with her drooping eyelids and ears lolling forward on top of her head, relaxed. 

Harry starts shaking as they stand and watch, looking around for Ellie with a visceral kind of fear in his eyes. 

He said she was _fine_. 

Louis wraps more firmly around him, half out of a need to comfort him and half because he needs comfort himself. 

The stalls on either side of them are empty, the course slowly falling into silence as the horses are led out and everyone important moves into the comfort of the restaurants. Louis looks at the floor, the sky, the staff gathering broken branches out on the track, and finally, at Liam. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, too, has his arms wrapped around himself so tight his knuckles have gone white. He looks like he wants to pace, but he’s making himself stay still while he waits for the verdict. 

The vet doesn’t seem particularly concerned, and that’s good, it is. Still, Louis can’t stop his mind from racing. She might have given herself a fright – he’s seen it many times before, horses that were easy and obedient under saddle flat-out refusing to jump a hurdle again because they were scared. She might have—God, she might have an injury that’ll only show later, the next time she's running. 

And Ellie—they might not have Ellie anymore. 

“She’s fine, Mr Payne,” the vet says finally, smiling a little as she tickles Marshmallow on the pastern. “Get an X-ray as soon as you get home, of course, but there’s no swelling, and she’s not in pain. Clever girl, she is.” 

“What do you mean?” Liam frowns. 

“She stopped,” the vet says. “You must have missed it – understandable, really, these things really scare the life out of you, don’t they – but some of the stumblers ran on, and I had two horses just keel over as soon as they finished. They had hairline fractures at most, and now we’re dealing with two broken legs.” 

“Oh,” Liam mumbles, and he moves to Marshmallow as soon as the stall is free, like he physically can’t stay away. “That’s—yeah. She’s very clever.” 

The vet nods, smiles, nails tapping against her clipboard. “That’s me, then,” she says. “Take good care of her, Mr Payne, Mr Styles.” 

Harry startles in Louis’s arms, like he hadn’t realised that she saw them idling by. “T—thank you,” he manages to stutter out, though he doesn’t sound like himself. “We will.” 

She walks away to the sound of her boots clacking against the concrete, and the three of them look at each other with no idea of what to say. Harry’s shaking has subsided into trembles, and he doesn’t really need to be held anymore, but Louis keeps him there, selfishly, until he moves away to comfort his horse. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, and he looks so young it breaks Louis’s heart a little. “Hey, beautiful, how are you doing?” 

Marshmallow sighs deep in her belly, her neck relaxed and head hanging low, probably about to go to sleep. Liam’s petting her neck, weaving half-hearted braids into her mane, and when Harry presses his face against her shoulder on the other side, she leans into him. 

Louis reaches down and pets her nose. His chest feel terrifyingly tight, barely allowing him to breathe as he stands and looks into the distance – and there, limping slowly away from first aid, are Ellie and Olly. They’re laughing, and Louis experiences a second of wonderful, sweet relief—but then he looks down. At the very big, very obvious sling that’s wrapped around Ellie’s neck, holding her arm in position. 

Liam notices them just a few second later, and so does Harry. Louis can pinpoint the moment they both figure out what’s going on, because the air around them changes entirely; becomes hard to breathe.

“Hey, boss,” Olly waves once they make it off the course and through the paddock entrance. “Sorry we took so long.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Liam manages to reply incredulously, in a voice so thin it’s barely audible. “What happened?” 

“Non-displaced fracture,” Ellie says, putting on a funny voice. She’s smiling, but her eyes are sad too. “And a couple of jostled ribs, I think. I’ve got to get to a real hospital.” 

“Yeah, we’ll—“ Liam starts, pointing over his shoulder, but he trails off. He’s looking at the ground, throat working. 

“I don’t want you to worry,” says Harry, impressively composed. “I’ll get you anything you need. A—a non-displaced fracture specialist, or something.” 

_My beautiful boy_ , Louis thinks. 

Ellie walks over to him, and pulls him into a careful, one-armed hug. “Thanks,” she says, and none of them comment on how thick her voice has gone. “I’ll be right as rain in no time, I’m sure, but…” 

_But_. It’s hanging over all of them, like a cloud heavy with rain just before a storm.

“You’re not going to race next week,” Liam takes the plunge. 

“Or the ten weeks after that, I’m afraid.” 

Silence. Liam stands with his hands in his pockets as he tries to figure out what to say, and Louis moves closer to Harry before he can stop to think about it, needing his familiar warmth. 

“You’ll find someone,” Olly says finally, bless him. “I mean—we’re going to Hexham in a few weeks, right?” 

Silence – again. Louis’s skin is itching, burning from head to toe with the awkwardness that hangs in the air. 

_In a few weeks_ , Olly’s words echo in his head, and he’d bet anything they’re stuck in Liam’s too.

“We are,” Liam ends up saying, a reassuring hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, his eyes hard-set and determined. “We will.” 

Louis is not so sure.

*

As most of humanity tends to do when things go wrong, they get drunk. Hammered. One could every say spectacularly shitfaced.

It’s a couple of days after the race; Ellie’s forearm is in a cast, Harry is moping, and Liam has been glued to his phone for the past forty-eight hours. One of the people he calls is, apparently, Niall, who strolls in with a big smile on his face and a couple of Tesco bags’ worth of booze. (They raid Harry’s fancy bar as well, though he seems to be keen to get away while they’re there. Louis, too, remembers them sitting on those very stools and drinking Cosmos, remembers every minute of that night in excruciating detail.)

Point is, they amass a decent amount of alcohol. Like, enough to supply a medium-sized pub for a night. 

And that brings them to—

“You’re being dramatic,” Niall declares, approximately five beers in and completely unaffected. He keeps waving his hands when he speaks, sloshing on Harry’s very expensive rugs. “She’s not, like, famous. You can literally hire anyone.” 

“We _can’t_ ,” Liam says, enunciating in a way that makes him look like he’s doing facial gymnastics. “Newbies run separate races, this one ish for _real_ jockeys.” 

“Ish it?” Harry asks, slumped in his armchair and sporting a lazy grin. 

“I’d say fuck you,” Liam says, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to act sober. “But Louis would make a joke.” 

“That I would,” Louis smiles, amused. A drunk Liam is rather like a starfish, moving his limbs in completely illogical ways into completely illogical places. He usually ends up tangled with a piece of furniture or, more often than not, Louis. “Cheers.” 

He looks up at Harry – because he’s sitting on the ground between his legs, and it’s a wonderful place to be – and raises his drink. Harry reaches over to clink their glasses together. He looks sleepy and hazy and scorchingly hot. If Louis was drunk, he’d probably be sitting in his lap by now. 

Thankfully, he foresaw tonight’s events, as well as the fact that alcohol makes him behave like a housecat starved for affection, and made the healthy decision. That is to say, he’s been pouring his screwdrivers into a nearby flowerpot all evening. 

He still feels slightly woozy, but he only has Harry’s eyes to blame for that.

“But the main season isn’t on, right?” Niall continues, and it’s only then Louis remembers that they’d been trying to have a conversation. “Like—I bet there’s lots of jockeys out there who don’t have a job.” 

“We need someone good,” Liam laments, looking up at the ceiling. He sounds near tears; Louis is going to have to take his drink away soon. “She has to plate. Place. Louis, water.” 

“That’s rude,” Harry gasps, and Louis giggles as he reaches for one of the water bottles they’d prepared for this very reason. 

“Here you go, Lime,” he says as he hands it to Liam, and pats him on the head for good measure. Liam frowns, like he’s noticed something is off with the way Louis said his name, but no matter how much he frowns, he can’t figure it out.

Drunk Liam is Louis’s favourite. 

After he’s taken a sip of water, he continues, pointing at Niall: “I’ve called everyone I know, they’re all signed to someone else. They can’t just up and race a random horse.” 

“I could do it,” Niall shrugs, looking out of the window like he can see anything in the blackness behind it. “How hard can it be?” 

“Very hard,” Harry says, sounding very important and squinting as he tries to figure out where Niall begins and ends. “It’s very hard.” 

Nobody says anything after that, and Louis laughs so hard he has to hide it in his knees. 

Harry falls asleep soon after, his legs draped over an armrest and head tilted back. The line of his jaw is sharp and prominent, drawing Louis’s eye and holding him hostage. He can still recall how it felt against his lips, the warmth and glow of Harry’s skin. 

“We should go to bed,” Niall says from his spot on the floor, looking up at the ceiling like it’s the night sky and he’s picking out constellations. Louis is a little scared of how calm and articulate he is, considering the amount of drinks he’s downed. “I have patients.” 

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Louis points out. 

“Oh,” says Niall. “Okay. I guess I don’t have patients.” 

“You should take more time off, you know,” Louis tells him as he stands up, carefully dislodging the hand that Harry’s left resting on his shoulder. They’ve turned off the lights, and Liam’s eyes glisten in the darkness as he watches Louis collect empty glasses.

“Who, me?” asks Niall. 

“ _Yes_ , you. You work too much.” 

“That’s _outrageous_ ,” he defends himself, a step away from shouting. Harry, thankfully, doesn’t even stir. “Six days a week is not too much. I’ve been thinking about Sundays, actually, what do you think—“

“No,” Louis jumps in. He’s been allowed to cut physio down to twice a week, but if Niall extended his hours, Louis would probably be the first person he’d bully into an extra session. “You practically live there as it is. You’ve got to get out more. Date someone, or something.” 

“Mreh,” Niall says, and startles Louis into a laugh. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m heaps of fun,” Louis says, bending over him to reach all his empty beer bottles. “I invented the word. I’m the _spirit_ of fun. The ghost of Christmas fun.” 

Liam snorts. “He’s right,” he says, slurring his words but much more sober than he was right after he discovered the joys of Jack and Coke. “You should have fun. Louis knows these things.” 

“Aw, Liam,” Louis pats him on the cheek on his way to the kitchen. “That’s adorable, thank you.” 

Liam grumbles something and turns over, facing Niall. Louis leaves them behind to put the dirty glasses in the sink and get a garbage bag, but their voices still carry, down the hall and in through the open door. 

“We should go out,” Liam is saying. Louis’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “To the cinema, or something.”

“What for?” Niall replies. 

“ _Fun_. Do you like superheroes?” 

Louis feels like a mother on her child’s first day of kindergarten. Liam’s making _friends_.

“I saw an Iron Man movie, I think.” 

“I’ll show you the others,” Liam says, and he sounds so excited about it, bless him. “They’re really good. We can go see Civil War together.” 

Louis gasps, clutching a mostly-empty bottle of vodka to his chest even though there’s no one to see him. _They_ were supposed to see Civil War together. Liam and him. 

But then—

“Really?” Niall says, and there’s a happy lilt to his voice that Louis has never heard before. “I mean—yes. We can do that.” 

“Nice,” Liam replies, sounding sleepy and definitely pleased. “Good. Give me your number.” 

There’s a _thunk_ , and a hiss, and then badly muffled peals of laughter. Louis walks back in to Niall clutching his forehead, grinning like a madman, and tapping the screen of Liam’s mobile. Over on the sofa, Liam is lying face-first in a pillow, wearing a deliriously happy smile. 

The sombre mood will probably come back in full force tomorrow morning, but it’s gone for now, and it’s enough to make Louis’s heart warm. He’s smiling when he points Niall to an empty room, and when he softly nudges Harry and steers him all the way to bed with a hand on his waist. 

When he comes back for Liam, though, he refuses to move from his spot. 

“Comfy,” he implores. “Comfy, Louis. Leave me.” 

“You’re going to be in so much pain when you wake up,” Louis tells him. Harry’s sofas are pretty, but certainly not examples of proper lumbar support. “You’ll kill me.” 

“Nope,” Liam says happily, popping the _p_. He turns over and reaches up, waiting patiently until Louis wraps his hands around his forearms, naively thinking he’s changed his mind. 

In the next second, he’s lying right by Liam’s side, his best friend’s arms wrapped around him like the tentacles of a particularly cuddly octopus. 

“No,” Louis protests, but it’s weak. He knows from experience that Liam’s arms are like a vice. 

“No,” Liam replies. “Not going up. Sleep here.” 

“Li—“ 

“Nuh. Is your knee okay?” 

Louis can’t quite believe him. He looks and sounds like he should’ve been in bed ages ago – he might be talking in his sleep, actually – but he’s still remembered to ask. 

“The knee’s fine, Payno,” Louis tells him, and pats him on the head. “I don’t fancy a pinched nerve in my back, though.” 

“Shhh,” Liam hisses, so emphatically he spits on Louis’s face a little. “Niall will help you with that. Sleep now.” 

He’s pouting, and Louis wants to laugh at him, but instead he gives in and closes his eyes. It’s only then that he realises how tired he is, his eyelids refusing to lift again, but he doesn’t mind. He’s warm and comfortable with Liam wrapped all around him; the cold bed waiting for him upstairs doesn’t seem very tempting in comparison. 

“Goodnight, then,” he sighs, resting his head on Liam’s shoulder. 

“Night,” Liam replies. There’s still something he wants to say, though, Louis can tell. 

“What?” he pokes him in the ribs, already sinking into sleep, thoughts fuzzy. 

“Nothing, just,” Liam starts. He’s whispering, and one of his hands has found its way to the centre of Louis’s back. “We do have a jockey who could run.” 

Louis’s blood runs cold. Every last one of his nerve endings flares to life, effectively waking him up. 

“Liam,” he says, at full volume and dead serious, ready to talk about this and put it to rest, but Liam—Liam’s asleep. 

“Fuck,” Louis whispers as his throat constricts. “Fuck.” 

He doesn’t sleep a whole lot, after that.

*

Louis is an idiot. An utter, absolute, bloody _idiot_.

“Trousers off, if you would,” the doctor grins at him. The tag he’s got pinned to his white coat declares him _Dr Corden_ , and he’s wearing a friendly smile. In any other situation, Louis would probably be joking right back. 

This isn’t really the time, though. Not when his heart is beating so hard he feels it in every inch of his body. 

“Right,” he says, then wiggles out of his jeans. He’s wearing his nicest boxers underneath – if there’s one thing his mother has taught him, it’s to always wear nice underwear when you’re going to the doctor’s. “Right, yeah.” 

“And back up on the table, please,” Dr Corden smiles again. He doesn’t seem to mind that Louis just left his trousers in a heap right there on the floor. “Mr Tomlinson. Can I call you Louis?” 

Louis nods. “Please.” 

“Wonderful. My name is James, I’m an orthopedist, and I work with the BHA, but you obviously already know all that.” 

The BHA. God, Louis feels faint. 

“As far as I can tell, they didn’t monitor you after your injury, is that right?” 

He nods again, wrapping his arms around himself. “I mean…the verdict was that I was never going to walk again. You can’t exactly blame them.” 

“No, I guess not,” James laughs. “But you’re here today, aren’t you? Clearly you’ve been underestimated.” 

Louis blushes a little. 

“Alright, Louis,” James says, setting his clipboard down and pulling on a pair of gloves instead. “Just to make sure you’re up to speed – I’m responsible for examining you, and I’ll be sending my findings to the CMA, but he might still need to call you in after. This is a fairly rare case.” 

“Sorry—the CMA?” Louis feels naked completely, not just from the waist down. He shivers a little, and bites the back of his hand. 

“Chief Medical Adviser,” James smiles. He’s being so kind it makes Louis want to cry a little. “Don’t be nervous, mate. Won’t be a minute.”

“Sure,” Louis smiles. His eye starts twitching. 

James looks at him like he knows what he’s thinking, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he moves to the table Louis is sitting on, and doesn’t allow for so much as a second of panic before touching his knee with cool fingers. 

Louis won’t look. Can’t look. He’s been avoiding the scars for months upon months on end, and it’s a carefully practiced dance by now. He stares at his right leg and his right leg only when he gets dressed and when he goes to bed and now, even though James isn’t being particularly gentle while poking him. 

“I’ve got to say, your X-ray wasn’t very convincing,” he says, and runs a finger down the knee scar. It makes Louis shiver in the most disgusting way possible. “The femur has healed wonderfully, but then they usually do. You knee, on the other hand…” 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He’s an idiot for being here. Such an idiot. 

But he _wants_ this. He wants it more than anything in the world, perhaps with the exception of Harry Styles.

“I know,” is what he tells James. “I know it’s not great, but—“ 

“Do you know, though? I just want to make sure you understand, Louis,” he looks up, a frown settled between his eyebrows. It looks wrong on his round, cheerful face. “This knee,” he says, and taps the very top of it. Louis tries to hide his flinch. “It won’t ever be a hundred per cent again. It won’t even be seventy per cent. More like thirty, if you’re lucky.” 

And he has been. He wakes up every morning expecting the pain to be back, to be stuck to his leg like a leech. He still reaches out for his cane before he’s fully come to, already prepared to spend an excruciating hour bending and stretching and air biking until he doesn’t want to throw up.

None of that ever happens, though. The pain is minor enough that he’s accepted it as a part of him, and barely notices it as he goes about his mornings excited to go to Harry’s. And the cane—the cane still leans against the wall by his bedside, but it’s little more than a reminder now. 

_Please_ , he thinks. _Please God, James, anyone. Let me have this one more time._

 __“I do know that,” he says finally. James is looking at him with his head cocked to the side, eyes warm but wary. “I do. I’m not Tony McCoy, I won’t be out there jumping fences at forty, but I just—please. Just give me one season.”

James’ expression doesn’t change. “Are you in pain when you walk?” 

“No.” 

“When you ride?” 

Louis bites his lip. “No.” 

“What did your doctor say?”

“She, um,” Louis scratches his head. “She said she’ll only refer me to you because there’s no chance in hell you’ll pass me.” 

James laughs. “She wasn’t wrong.” 

Louis wrings his hands where they’re resting in his lap. This is his one chance. There aren’t any do-overs after this; this is _it_. 

“Niall says it’s structurally fine,” he starts. “The—the tendons and muscles and everything, most of it grew back the way it was supposed to.” 

“It’s on the inside, Louis. Your joint isn’t cushioned properly anymore. Everything’s aligned, but it would be _so easy_ to break it again,” he looks earnest now, sitting down in his chair and looking up. Louis tries to remember that he’s got his best interests at heart. Probably. 

“One season,” he repeats. “That’s all I want. All I need. I’ll come in for a checkup every week, I’ll take Niall to the races with me, I don’t care, just—one season. Until after the National.” 

James raises his eyebrows. “The National? Bit farfetched, isn’t it?”

Louis shrugs. His legs feel cold, the raised skin of his scars stinging even though nobody has touched it. “She’s a damn good horse. She’ll make it there.” 

“Who did you say the owner was?” James asks, then sighs and pulls a stack of papers out of the organiser on his desk.

“Harry Styles,” Louis smiles. Just saying Harry’s name gives him such a bloody _thrill_. It makes him feel warmer, safer. Like all his dreams aren’t on the line right now. 

“Never heard of him,” James replies. He’s writing something, and then pressing his stamp down on the paper with a noise that makes Louis flinch. “Is he one of those spoilt Dukes thrice removed?” 

“No,” Louis says, with a ferocity that’s entirely inappropriate for the setting. James isn’t attacking Harry, he doesn’t even know him. _Relax_. “He’s…” 

A clear sky after a day of rain. The sun, and the moon, and the stars too. The reason Louis gets out of bed in the morning. Everything; absolutely everything.

“He’s great.” 

James smiles, looking into his papers. He shuffles them around on the desk, and Louis spots a familiar blue and red letterhead. His stomach freefalls out of his body and lands on the pristine tiled floor right next to his jeans. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” James says finally, like they haven’t just spent several minutes in complete silence. “And I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that he can sign one of the most popular jockeys of this generation.” 

It takes Louis a second—a minute, really, the words reverberating emptily in his brain, void of meaning. _One of the most popular jockeys of this generation_. It’s only when James stands up and forces the stack of papers into his hand when he realises that—that—

“Are you serious?” he asks, entirely breathless. His eyes fill up with tears before he can so much as think of controlling his reaction, and he probably looks like a child when he looks up at the doctor. “Is this—really? For real?” 

James pats him on the shoulder. “One season, Louis. Promise me.” 

“I promise,” Louis says immediately. His hands have started shaking, the stack of papers crinkling in his grip. 

“Good. If you don’t retire next year, I’m going to come after you.” 

“No, I—I will, I—“ the oxygen in his lungs isn’t enough, suddenly, and he has to pause to take in panicked little breaths. James looks concerned as he helps him bend forward and put his head between his knees, rubbing his back. 

_Approved_ , one of the papers says, the world blurring right in front of Louis’s eyes until it stops making sense. He’s been approved. 

He’s going to _race_. 

“I’m going to be sick,” says Louis, and proceeds to throw up his breakfast into the closest bin. 

It’s the best day ever.

*

The only issue with being back in the saddle – literally and figuratively – is that they’ve yet to tell Harry. Liam has reasoned that there’s no reason to give him hope only to take it away if the doctor told Louis no, and Louis had agreed easily enough.

There’s nothing easy about this, though, about sitting in Harry’s office with the windows wide open, feeling the breeze soothe his red cheeks. 

“ _You_ ’re going to ride,” Harry repeats again, looking from Liam to Louis and then back. He’s actually sitting behind his desk for once, and cuts an imposing figure. His hair is pulled up into a bun, exposing the sharp angles of his face, and together with the frown on his face and his steepled hands makes him look stern and serious; nothing like the Harry whom Louis knows. “You’re going to ride Marshmallow. In Hexham, which is,” he looks at his kitten calendar, “in fifteen days.” 

Louis feels terribly off-kilter. All the meetings they’ve had in this office have been informal, casual, even friendly. Now, though, the solid body of Harry’s wooden desk creates a divide between them, and it might as well be the Grand Canyon with how far away it makes him feel. 

“That’s right,” Liam says, smiling. He either hasn’t noticed how strange Harry is being, or is studiously ignoring it. “The doctor said he’s good to go, and he’s been riding for months now, so we really just need to dust off—“ 

“What if I say no?” Harry asks. It feels rather like he’s reached into Louis’s chest and ripped his heart out. 

He looks so serious about it, and Louis is suddenly drenched in cold sweat. Harry had been so supportive, had bought him the bloody breeches he’s wearing right now, hoping to go straight on the track with Marshmallow after they’re done.

Except. He won’t be going anywhere, if the wild frown on Harry’s face is anything to go by. 

Liam, too, looks gobsmacked. “Why would you say no?” he asks before Louis can try. 

Their eyes meet. He means to look out of the window behind Harry, really, at the grassy slopes of the paddock, because he’s heard somewhere that green is supposed to be calming, but Harry doesn’t let him. 

His eyes are green too, Louis realises as they stare at each other. He’s shaking in his chair, trying not to lose his mind completely; opposite him, stoic and cold and still heart-wrenchingly beautiful, sits Harry. Louis cannot read a single thing in his gaze. It’s like the shutters have been closed – like for the first time since they met each other, Harry is making a conscious effort to keep him out. 

“Why would you say no?” Louis repeats, even though his throat feels like he’s being strangled. 

Harry blinks, slow and thorough. The line of his lips is turned down when he leans back in his chair and says, nonchalant: “I wouldn’t.” 

“Okay,” Liam claps his hands, clearly anxious to get out. Even with the windows open, the air has gone stuffy and stale around them. “Thanks, Harry. We’ll go and get to it, if you don’t mind.” 

“Sure,” he says, looking down at the desktop. He’s stuck a bright pink post it right in the centre of it, and is doodling an erratic cluster of circles in one corner. He’s pouting a little, Louis thinks. It’s the first sign of emotion he’s shown since they walked into the office. 

Liam leads the way out, all but running. Louis follows, but he can’t help but stop in the doorway for just a second. 

“Bye, Harry,” he says, soft. He waits for a second, two, ten; Harry keeps his eyes down, and doesn’t say anything back. 

Okay, then. 

Louis resolves to not let it bother him. He’s got so many things to prove to himself, to Liam, to everyone who thought he was done for good, and whatever strop Harry’s throwing will have to wait. 

He throws himself into training instead. His life had been a trainwreck after he fell, and this, zooming down the track at actual race speed, clearing fence after fence until the bones in his lower back feel like they’re vibrating, feels like being put back in the rails. Marshmallow has the energy of a fireball, burning bright even when it’s five in the morning and Louis’s eyes are closing, and he and Liam slide right back into the familiar dynamics of their working relationship. Every day, they bicker about Louis wearing an air jacket, then about his diet, and about his hunched back or heavy elbows or stiff thighs, even though they both know his form could rival the best. They end their days by singing along to Queen in the car (and Liam usually ends up sleeping at Louis’s, but that’s neither here nor there).

Harry doesn’t come to check up on them once; not to ask how it’s going, not to bring tea and biscuits or just kiss Marshmallow for no reason like he usually does. It’s unsettling, but Louis’s exhaustion is so bad he dozes off on the way home most days, and this confrontation clearly needs to happen at a time when they’re both capable of discussing things like adults. He still has no idea what happened, and his heart hurts every time he sees Harry’s silhouette standing in one of the windows, but—later. Later, he’ll get everything back to normal. 

The night before they leave for Hexham, Louis lies in bed and listens to Harry talking on the phone just behind the wall. He’s laughing, and the rumble of his voice is so familiar it almost makes Louis cry. Missing him is a physical ache, little pinpricks underneath his skin that remind him he hasn’t touched Harry in almost two weeks. 

He falls asleep with his hand pressed against the wall.

*

“I’m out of my mind,” Louis says, turning on his heel and stalking to the other end of the corridor. People are glaring at him, and the horses toss their heads nervously when he walks by, but he _can’t stop_. “I can’t do this, Li. What was I thinking, we have to—“

“We’re not going home,” Liam says as he jogs after him. He puts his hands on Louis’s shoulders when he catches up, effectively stopping him. “You’re going to do some breathing exercises, get on your horse, and win this bloody race.” 

Louis searches for a hint of doubt in his eyes, anything to suggest that he’s unsure about Louis’s ability to handle it out there, but he finds nothing. Liam looks earnest and excited, entirely too puppy-like, hair flopping into his face. 

“I can’t do this,” he whispers, letting all his guards down like he only can around his best friend. “I don’t know how—I’ve forgotten everything. I’ll probably start her off running in the opposite direction.” 

“Louis,” Liam says, serious, and puts a hand on his cheek, “you were on the track at six this morning, and you didn’t come back for two hours. You could run it in your sleep. So could Marshmallow.” 

“But what if I—“ 

“No,” says Liam. “No. We trained. We trained enough. You used to be a literal superstar, and not all of it was down to Simon’s publicists. You can do this.” 

Louis closes his eyes and swallows. He feels swollen and clammy and shaky all at the same time – it’s familiar, really, but he never did learn to enjoy the nerves, to feed off of them like other jockeys do. 

It’s half an hour until the bell, Louis knows. His entire body feels like a clock, ticking and getting more restless with every second. His knee is the only thing that has been good so far, has withstood the training and the pacing and the extra exercise that he put himself through. He’s almost completely confident it’s not going to give out in the middle of the race. 

“I need someone to hold my hand,” he breathes out, curling his trembling fingers into fists. 

“I can go get Harry?” Liam suggests immediately, bless his heart, but the thought makes Louis grimace. They lost Harry to the owners’ lounge as soon as they parked, and it seems that he’ll be watching the race with the posh crowd today. “Or Niall, even. Olly. Anyone you want, just tell me.” 

Louis huffs a laugh. “Just hold my bloody hand.” 

Liam grins, like a laugh is what he was going for from the beginning, and wraps one of Louis’s shaking hands in his own. It’s—grounding. Incredibly so. 

“You’ll be golden,” Liam promises, and the warm reassurance in his voice goes a long way in helping Louis settle down. “Completely fine. This is what you’re meant to be doing, remember?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, crushing Liam’s knuckles. “Yeah.” 

It’s really just that—everything feels completely different. New, like Louis hasn’t run in dozens of meetings like this. He’d almost cried at the weigh-in earlier, just because the number on the scale was so different from what he used to see. He’s dropped a few pounds to make sure he stays within the guidelines, but it’s nothing compared to the diet Simon used to scare them all into. There was a time when Louis was barely more than skin and bones, and it’s only now that he realises. 

It’s also the fact that Simon is just – gone. After he made Louis the nation’s darling through his friends in the newspapers, he’d spend every race day breathing down Louis’s neck, hounding him for interviews and straightening his silks to make sure he represents Cowell properly. Now, Louis’s silks are wrinkled and half untucked, and the only person who should care is making sure that Louis is alright instead. 

“Twenty-five minutes,” Liam says after he’s given him a while to get lost in his thoughts. “You’ve got to go soon.”

Louis nods, and it’s then that Olly and Niall appear, walking in from the spectators’ area with a cup of tea and a pint respectively. They seem to be getting along surprisingly well, even though Olly was suspicious of Louis bringing his physiotherapist at first. Niall’s wide-eyed enthusiasm managed to win him over quite quickly. 

“Louis!” Niall shouts when he sees them, raising his beer in the air. Louis can’t believe _this_ is what he’s like outside of the office. They could’ve been friends, real friends, months ago. “I think it’s starting soon, mate. There’s lots of horses out there.” 

Louis laughs. Marshmallow is, indeed, the only horse left in her stall, and Olly makes quick work of leading her out. 

“I can do this,” Louis tells the ceiling. 

“You can do this,” Liam claps him on the shoulder, and then steps back. 

Louis keeps his head down while they walk down to the track, trying to block out any and all distractions. His blood is burning in his veins like liquid fire, thrumming in his wrists and his temples, soaking in the adrenaline. 

Twelve horses in the starting field. One Louis, one Marshmallow, and one Olly, who lets them go with a smile and a bow. One and a half miles, eight fences – one jump over water, two open ditches. A breeze, really, if only Louis didn’t feel like throwing up. 

He clutches the reins in one hand, trying to remember what one usually does before taking off. He’s been doing this since before he entered puberty, but his mind is so blank this might as well be his first time. He doesn’t recognise any of the colours in the running, and the jockeys all look the same.

It’s probably less than five minutes now, and everyone around him is putting on their goggles, which—right. Goggles. 

Louis makes sure that the strap is flat around the back of his cap, and silently thanks the universe for gifting him with a dry track today. He’d hate to be all muddy when their winners’ picture is taken. 

As if reading his thoughts, Marshmallow whinnies under him.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, and pats her on the neck. She’s alert now, not fidgety like the other horses but definitely not relaxed. “We’re going to win this, that’s why we’re here. You’ll be moving up a class, you’ll see.” 

They don’t actually need to win – a finish in the first three is more than enough to invite another performance review, but Louis has never done anything halfway.

The starting line is being pulled taut now, a teasing flash of white that flickers in and out of sight as it twists in the wind. Louis tests his stirrups, tightens the reins, slides the handle of his crop between his fingers. He feels muscle memory taking over, finally; it bolsters him as he trots forward, weaving in-between horses that are all at least a hand taller than Marshmallow, long and lean and athletic-looking. 

“Alright, gorgeous girl,” he whispers as he shifts his weight down to his calves, ready to sit up. “Let’s go get them.” 

It takes another ten seconds of feverish heartbeat drumming in Louis’s ears, of Marshmallow’s even breathing, of the din of conversation that rises from the stands. Louis is tempted to look up into the owners’ area, find flyaway hair and brilliant green eyes, but years of training make sure that he keeps looking at the stretch of turf ahead. 

He takes a breath in, then lets it out. Underneath all the nerves, he can feel pure, absolute happiness shivering through his body. 

When the bell sounds, he’s ready. Marshmallow takes off at a hearty gallop, steady as she rounds the first corner. Fence number one looms in front of them - Louis has jumped countless obstacles in the past two weeks, is ready for the lurch and the momentum that tries to pull him down, but there’s something uniquely exhilarating about this one. It’s _real_. 

She jumps the second one without a hitch, and the third, so solidly in the middle of the pack that Louis bumps elbows with several different people. It’s good, though, and it’s what they’ve trained her to do. 

He pulls her back just a little before the water, still balancing out the third turn and full of a gnawing kind of worry. It’s a long, long jump, and the one that made wrinkles appear on Liam’s forehead when he went over the course map. If they get this one right, they’ve as good as won. 

His heart stutters, out of rhythm and rising up the back of his throat. He’s _scared_ , so bloody scared of slipping off and going right back to the hospital room, but he wants this so much more than he is afraid. This is where he belongs, and he knows it – it’s in the whistle of the wind in his ears, the fall of his horse’s hooves that reverberates through his bones, in the air that smells of turf and leather. In the beautiful, bubbly feeling that fills him up from the inside, spreading warmth all the way to his fingertips. 

The horses in front of them rise over the fence like waves, one after another. A few of them splash, but they all make it to the other side. 

Louis loosens the reins, pulls his arms in, and lets his horse jump. Later, he’ll conveniently forget to tell Liam that he also closes his eyes. 

Gravity keeps a stubborn hold on him as they rise into the air, pulling on the back of his silks then tipping him dangerously far forward when they make it over the top, intent on pulling him out of the stirrups. Louis leans back and grins into the wind; the landing even startles a laugh out of him. That’s _it_. They’ve made it. 

Marshmallow seems just as exhilarated, pushing forward like a steamroller. Louis only holds her back a little, just enough to leave her best for last. 

They sail over the first ditch, then the second one, as if they were barely there. Louis’s cheeks are stinging, his fingers have gone numb, and he feels more alive that he ever has. 

The second round goes as smoothly as the first, steady. Fence after fence, Marshmallow leaves behind yet another horse, and once the final sprint opens in front of them, wide and green and seemingly endless, there are only two left. Louis rises high off her back and shifts his weight to the front, then lets her fight for it. 

“Come on, beautiful,” he shouts, face so close to her neck he can feel the heat radiating off of her. “Let’s go.” 

He thinks he can hear the crowd roaring in his ears, and the thunder of a dozen sets of hooves that rises behind them like a tidal wave. The stands fly past in a blur of colours, and the air ripples over the finish line in the distance. 

“Come on!” Louis shouts again, the air sharp against his face, burning its way all the way down to his lungs. He’s all but standing up, the reins wrapped around his fingers tight enough to hurt, moving with his horse, doing everything he can to help her to the end. 

They gallop past one of the horses, passing wide and leaving him behind. Louis can see the finish posts now, can all but hear the camera click as he stretches his arms forward one more time—

They’re second. 

They’re second, and Louis is laughing, raising his crop into the air like he’s just won the Ascot. 

“Well done,” he grins as he slows Marshmallow down, sitting in the saddle and trying to balance as she restlessly trots on. “Well done, lovely. Thank you.” 

She doesn’t hear him, sweating and throwing her head about as she tries to calm herself, but he knows he’ll get to thank properly later. Now—now he’s got to get off and realise what just happened.

The winner – _Forget Me Not_ , or something equally cheesy, Louis thinks – is just ahead of them, kicking nervously as a stable lad leads him off the track and into the winners’ enclosure. The jockey is grinning as he sits right on top, even though his face is flecked with dirt, and Louis—Louis can’t find it in himself to be even a little bit jealous. This was so much more than enough; they have time to win the cheers and the trophies and the flower garlands. 

They have _time_ , because Louis is back in the saddle, running the most talented horse that English racing has seen in decades. 

The noise slowly dies down as all the horses finish, a little dirty but otherwise sound, and the crowd starts trickling out to gather around the betting booths. Louis spots Olly’s blond head bobbing among the many people milling about, and gently pulls Marshmallow to a stop to wait for him. 

“Yes!” he shouts as soon as he’s within hearing distance, one of his arms raised above his head and grinning from ear to ear. “You smashed that,” he says as he skids to a stop, immediately extricating the reins out of Louis’s hands; he hands them over only a little reluctantly. “Well done, Louis,” he continues, petting Marshmallow’s face and scratching her on the cheek. “Seriously. Liam almost pissed himself.” 

Louis laughs as he settles down, comfortable in the saddle. His knee protests a little, but it’s a welcome kind of pain, a companion rather than a hindrance. “I assume you filmed it?” 

Olly smiles up at him, winking. “Course I did. I’ll show you on the way home.” 

Louis pokes him in the shoulder with his crop, and they both laugh until they’ve reached the gate and Louis has to dismount. He does so automatically, utterly used to it. It’s like he never left and like everything has changed, all at the same time. 

Secretly, Louis still expects to close his eyes and wake up back in bed. Right then, everything around him feels too good to be true.

Olly leaves him with a wave and scuttles toward the stables, leading Marshmallow away to get her taken care of. Louis takes a minute to stretch and breathe in, basking in the moment and imagining the bath he’s going to take when he gets back to—

Shit. 

It’s not quite enough to get rid of his good mood, but he’s much more sombre when he walks inside. His boots are chafing; he’s going to get them off, change out of his colours, and then go look for Harry. If there’s a right time to fix whatever this is, it’s most definitely now. 

Except—he doesn’t quite make it to the changing room. 

As soon as he steps foot in the stable, now resembling a hive with the constant noise and motion, he hears somebody call his name. 

“Louis!” it carries over people’s heads right to him, and recognizing the voice is the easiest thing in the world. 

“Harry?” he calls back, turning in place, but it’s impossible to see. There are horses being led out, stable lads, vets, valets, jockeys returning off the track, all tangling together. “Harry!” 

“Lou!” he shouts again. He sounds—desperate, and Louis suddenly feels like climbing on top of the person closest to him just to see, to get there faster, because no matter what Harry has done, Louis’s instincts are screaming at him to keep him safe. “Louis, over here!” 

It turns a few heads, but nothing more. Louis gets jostled and moved and carried away by the crowd; Harry’s voice seems closer now, and out of the corner of his eye, Louis spots a familiar striped coat. 

He turns around and blindly reaches out. His fingers just manage to curl into the edge of a sleeve. 

“Harry,” he says when whoever’s wearing the coat tries to yank it out of his grip, and then, finally, everything seems to still. The person standing between them shuffles away, glaring at Louis for the elbows they’d received in the ribs.

Louis doesn’t care, because Harry turns around, and he looks—wild. 

“Louis,” he breathes, and a brilliant smile lights up his face. Louis feels his eyes sting with tears just seeing him, seeing _this_ , his lovely boy who wears his heart on his sleeve. 

He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but he never gets the chance. 

Harry reaches out, pulls him in by the collar, and kisses him. 

Louis squeaks in surprise, but his body settles into it before he can so much as stop and think about it. Harry is warm, so warm against Louis’s cold-bitten cheeks, and his hands are gentle, reverent, when he cups Louis’s face. His lips are soft, so careful where they’re pressed against Louis’s, barely moving at all, just waiting and breathing him in. 

And Harry—Harry’s shaking , Louis realises. 

He wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrists, stroking the silky skin on the underside, where his pulse is running wild.

“Hey,” he whispers, but he doesn’t pull away; he _can’t_. The noise and commotion around them seem to have disappeared – it’s just him and Harry, and he wants this, needs this. “Hey.” 

Harry kisses him again in lieu of saying something back, another soft press of lips that gives Louis butterflies. His head is spinning, he feels giddy when he leans into the kiss, runs a soothing hand through Harry’s hair. The race is all but forgotten; everything that matters is in Louis’s arms now, trembling like a leaf. 

“Hey,” he tries again when he pulls away, but Harry’s eyes remain stubbornly closed. Louis takes his hand and tugs him along, unceremoniously shoving people out of the way until he finds Marshmallow’s stall, blessedly empty and just dark enough so they’re out of sight. His thoughts are going haywire, the rational part of his brain battling his body, which just wants to get lost in whatever Harry has to offer. He’s clearly not okay, and they’re _fighting_. 

“Harry?” he tries, tentative, never letting go of his hand. He looks tired in the wan light, with circles underneath his eyes that Louis hadn’t noticed before. “What’s going on, love? What happened?” 

The pet name works like a charm. Harry looks up, eyes as shiny as his lips, and he looks like he wants to speak, but no words come out. He shakes his head and points at his chest, heaving rapidly underneath his half-open shirt. 

“Can’t,” he gets out, obviously struggling. “Just—kiss me.” 

“Harry—“ 

“Please,” he asks, and Louis is powerless. 

He wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders as if he was moving in for a hug, making sure to pet every inch of him, to soak up the feverish heat of his skin and give him relief in return. It’s even softer than before when he leans in, just lips pressed to lips. He can hear, feel Harry struggling for breath now, and he rubs his shoulders, his back, anything he can to help him relax. 

Harry’s hands land on his waist unsure, so light Louis can barely feel them through the thin material of his colours. He shifts his weight, presses against one of them, trying to let Harry know that it’s okay, anything is okay, Louis would give him everything he asked and the world on top of that. 

Harry breathes in, shuddery but deep. His arms lock around Louis’s waist, pulling their bodies flush with each other. His lips slacken, and eventually he separates their mouths, only to lean in again and bury his head in Louis’s shoulder. 

He had been calm, before, but it only takes seconds before his breathing feels ragged again. It’s when Louis hears sniffles against his shoulder that every cell in his body screams in alarm, his heart clenching painful. 

“Shh, darling,” he whispers, a hand in Harry’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s alright, whatever it is, it’s alright.” 

Silently, Harry shakes his head. His fingers curl against Louis’s back. “I’m sorry,” he says, remarkably put together. “Lou, I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Louis tells him, though he knows full well there is. It’s just—he’d probably forgive Harry anything, especially when he’s like this. 

“No,” Harry shakes his head. He pulls away, but only far enough to look Louis in eye. “No, I shouldn’t have—there’s no excuse for what I did, I just really,” he trails off, looks down. Swallows. “I was so scared,” he says, and it’s so quiet Louis barely picks it up. 

He touches Harry’s cheek; revels in the way Harry leans into the touch, eyes close and a hint of a sad smile in the corner of his mouth. 

“Scared?” he asks. His entire body is aching with the need to touch Harry, to reassure him. 

He nods. One of his hands leaves Louis’s waist to tug at his own lip. “After what happened to Ellie, I just. I was so happy for you when you told me you were going to race, but I kept seeing it in my head, the way she flew out of the saddle like she didn’t weigh anything, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it happening to you, I couldn’t—“ he stops to breathe, lips trembling. Louis’s throat constricts. He’s ready to meet Harry’s gaze when he looks up, trying to pour everything he wants to say into one look. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” 

He’s tugging on Louis’s cravat desperately, probably unaware of it. “But I understand now, I promise I do. You belong out there, you just—you’re so beautiful, do you know that? I’ve never seen you smile the way you did when you finished that race. I couldn’t look away from the screen, you...” he trails off there, with another look into Louis’s eyes. His are clear now, free of the walls he’s had up for weeks, and Louis feels like he’s falling head-first into the green pools of them, never to surface again. “You’re breathtaking.”

Louis is crying now, he thinks. If he isn’t, he’s damn close. “You won’t lose me,” he says first, intent on letting Harry know. “Not ever, I promise you. If I fall again, then I fall, but I’m not leaving you, love. There’s no way.” 

His hand has ended up wrapped around Harry’s wrist again, and he feels the pulse underneath his fingertips jump. 

“And I don’t—I don’t want you to be sorry. It’s okay.” 

Harry shakes his head. “I wasn’t there for your first race,” he says, eyes big and miserable. “I should’ve been with you.”

While they’re having this conversation, Louis might as well just go all out. He puts his hand on his heart, watching Harry to make sure he’s caught the gesture. “You were,” he says, and smiles. 

Harry takes a sharp breath. “Louis,” he says, voice thick. He’s been touching Louis everywhere he can reach, his face and his neck and his waist, running his fingers through the hair on top of his head that’s messy from the helmet. 

“Harry,” he smiles back, even though he inexplicably feels like crying. Something—something is happening, obviously hanging in the air all around them, but he can’t tell what it is. His lips are still on fire, tingling with the ghost of Harry’s mouth on his. 

“Louis,” Harry repeats, and then, much softer: “Lou. I’m sorry.” 

Louis shakes his head. “I already told you, apology accepted.” 

“Not for that,” says Harry. Both of his arms are back around Louis’s waist now, settled there with palms flat against his back like he wants another hug, but isn’t quite sure how to ask for it. “I’m sorry for, uh. You know, jumping you like that.” 

Louis can’t help the laugh that falls out of his mouth, but Harry takes it in stride, his own lips curling up a little. 

“That’s okay,” Louis tells him, and tries desperately to ignore the fire that’s been ignited just underneath his skin, the yearning that eats away at him every day. “I didn’t mind.” 

Harry touches his lips. “It still felt right,” he says, then blinks in surprise, like maybe he hadn’t meant to let that slip. Louis, too, wishes he could have kept it inside, before yet another piece of his heart chipped away. 

He can be completely happy being Harry’s friend. He’s already told himself this, and his brain is in complete agreement – it’s the rest of his body that keeps betraying him, keeps gravitating towards Harry like he’s the world and Louis is the moon, always chasing him but always at a distance. 

It’s probably a good time to let go now, to stop clutching Harry like it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in years. Louis doesn’t want to, though. He never wanted to, and he never will, not until he’s old and shriveled and lonely and Harry is off somewhere being happy and raising a brood of children.

“Louis,” Harry’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, and he’s momentarily shocked to see him young and long-haired and doe-eyed. “Where did you go?” he’s asking, smiling _that_ smile, the one that Louis’s and Louis’s only. 

“Just, you know,” he shrugs. “Thinking. Should we go find Liam? There might be some important people you need to schmooze with.” 

And he moves to walk away; though putting space between their bodies feels like fighting gravity itself, it needs to be done, and it needs to be done now, before he does something he can’t take back. Harry stops him before he has a chance to move. 

“Wait,” he says, and the smile is gone from his face and his voice. He’s nervous again, fiddling with the lapels of his coat, toes pointed inwards. There’s something fragile between them still, has been there for as long as they’ve been talking. “I—can I ask you a question?” 

“Of course,” Louis replies without thinking. “Anything.” 

Harry crowds back into his personal space without invitation. Louis can’t resist pulling him closer. 

“So…I have this friend,” he starts, and Louis suppresses a laugh. _Friend_ , right. “And he’s—he’s a bit of a wanker, to be honest, really out of touch with his feelings, just terrible. Anyways, uh,” he pauses, hesitant. Louis pokes him gently in the chest in an effort to push his next words out. “This friend. He’s got another friend, and they, uh, they kissed this one time, right?” 

Louis freezes. 

“And my friend, who’s a wanker, told _his_ friend that it shouldn’t happen again, because he’s scared of love, or something ridiculous like that. He said it’d be better to stop before either of them falls for the other, except he was full of it, because he was already in love. That’s what he told me, anyway.” 

He’s looking down, kicking a pile of straw around with the toe of his boot. Louis’s lungs feel like they’ve turned to dust inside his body. There’s no _air_.

“So he asked me for a second opinion,” Harry continues, hands behind his back, hair in his face and sheepish like Louis has never seen him. He’s shaking again, just a bit, and Louis wishes more than anything that he could reach out and hold him, but his limbs won’t bloody work. “Because he—he loves this friend a lot, and the friend kissed him too, so there’s a chance he might love him back one day, and he wanted to know—he’s said all these things that turned out not to be true, and he thinks he’s ruined his chances—“

“Harry,” Louis gets out. He sounds rather like a dying cat, and feels like it, too. 

“Let me finish,” Harry looks up, and there’s pure, wild panic swirling in his eyes. “He asked me if he should tell this boy that he loves him more than anything in the world, and I said—I said I’d have to think about it before I gave him any advice. I figured you could help.”

“Help,” Louis repeats. He’s wheezing, and the stall floor feels wobbly underneath his feet. 

“Yeah,” says Harry. He looks like he’s a second away from running out the door and never coming back. “Do you think his friend should know? Do you think he could love him back?” 

Louis blinks. He feels torn open and turned inside out, shocked and confused and wrong-footed, but above all that, _relieved_. The words he wants to say taste sweet in his mouth as they form, and he knows – Harry’s just put everything on the line, came right out with it even though he’s obviously terrified, and the least Louis can do in return is be upfront. 

There’s something asleep in Louis’s chest that’s just waiting to explode; happiness, maybe, or the overwhelming sense of rightness he feels whenever he’s with Harry. 

He reaches out. Harry goes to take his hand, but Louis moves past, and instead puts his fingers on Harry’s cold cheeks, gentle as can be. He needs him to hear, to see, that he’s being serious. 

“Could he?” Harry asks when the silence stretches for a beat too long, his voice impossibly small. Louis blinks a couple of stray tears out of his eyes.

“Gorgeous boy,” he says, smiling, shaking his head because—how could Harry ever think that he isn’t Louis’s entire world? “He already does.” 

Harry blinks. It takes a few seconds to sink in, and when it does, his mouth falls open just a little.

“You do?” he asks, and the sheer awe in his voice is enough to have Louis choking back another wave of tears. 

He leans in instead, and presses a kiss to Harry’s lips, just one. He leans his forehead against Harry’s when he pulls away.

“Of course I do,” he breathes into the minuscule space between them, grinning. “I have for ages.” 

“You—really?” 

Louis looks at his wide eyes, his beautiful lips; listens to the tremble in his voice, and thinks – knows – that this, right here, is where he’s met his forever. 

“Really, love,” he replies. He feels soft, sated, rather like climbing into bed with Harry and never coming out again. “It’s been months, since before we—you know.” 

Twin red spots appear in the apples of Harry’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he says, _again_ , and doesn’t give Louis a chance to reassure him. “That was—I loved you, and you loved me, and I told you—oh my God, I’m so sorry.” 

“You’ve really got to stop apologising,” Louis smiles. “It’s okay. You were scared, I understood that then and I understand now. Don’t apologise for telling me how you feel,” he says, “even if it wasn’t the whole truth.” 

“I still am,” he admits, so close Louis can hear the rasp of his breath in his chest. “Scared, I mean. I’m terrified, but I can’t keep running, not when—not when you’re everything to me.” 

“And you to me,” Louis replies, closing his eyes, enjoying the way the words echo in his head. _Everything_. “I’m not him. I think you deserve the world, you know? Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, I’ll be right there with you, I promise.” 

Harry sniffles.

“If you’ll have me, of course.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Harry bursts out, laughing through tears. Louis’s own emotions feel much the same. “Shut up, of course I’ll have you. Why do you think I told you this in the first place?” 

He falls forward, wrapping around Louis in a hug. Some of the tightness in Louis’s chest dissipates, and he realises – only just begins to realise, really – that this is happening. Harry is here, in his arms, and _his_. 

“I can’t believe you made up a friend,” he giggles into Harry’s hair. He feels a little less creepy sniffing it now, and the familiar scent of coconut shampoo that hits him when he does is the most soothing thing in the world. “I can’t believe you, Harry Styles.” 

“I didn’t know how else to do it,” Harry mumbles. His lips move against Louis’s neck; they’re perfectly innocent, and yet they feel like fire. “I was sure you’d be mad at me still, so I figured I’d try something that would make you laugh.” 

“Did you rehearse?” 

He scoffs. “Of course I did. You can’t do a dramatic love declaration without practice.” 

Louis smiles, thinking of all the times Harry has told him – when he accepted Louis’s ginormous family into his home without a second though, when he spent weeks putting together specially customised breeches, when he let Louis ride in this race even though he had the power to stop it. 

“I love you,” he says into Harry’s ear, laughing a little because hearing the words come out of his own mouth makes him deliriously happy. “I love you, I love you I love you I love you I love y—“ 

“Shush,” Harry giggles, and pulls him into another kiss. It feels different now, with all these things out in the open, with fireworks shooting through Louis’s veins and Harry’s bright, bright smile pressed against his own. 

He sucks on Harry’s bottom lip, trying to deepen the kiss, but Harry moves away. 

“Before I climb you like a tree,” he says, trying to look serious, “this means we’re boyfriends, right?” 

Louis wants to kiss every last inch of his face. “Yes it does,” he grins. Harry’s answering smile feels like a drug, gets his heart racing in his chest in the best way. “You’re never getting rid of me now.” 

“Wonderful,” says Harry, and steps back into Louis’s embrace. He pauses just before he connects their lips, lashes brushing his cheeks and a content quirk to his lips, “I love you.” 

“Love you too, gorgeous,” Louis replies, and finally kisses him for real. 

It’s wonderful, and dizzying, and completely disorienting. All of his senses are focused on Harry, on hearing the little noises he makes and tasting the mint on his tongue that his chewing gum left behind. He touches every bit of Harry’s body that’s within reach, just because he _can_ now. There’s no doubts, no heartbreak – they love each other. 

One day, Louis is going to wake up and be used to the reality of it. Today is most definitely not that day, and he thinks he’s fully justified in trying to coax as many different noises as possible out of Harry’s mouth. 

Liam is the one who ends up finding them there, leaning against the wall of the stall snogging the daylights out of each other, Louis’s leg hitched up on Harry’s hip and one of Harry’s hands on his arse. To his credit, he doesn’t comment on their position, just shrieks a little in surprise and then announces they’re ready to leave. 

“Let’s go home,” Harry says when he pulls away, lips red and a sneaky love bite just underneath his jaw. His hair is wild, his shirt untucked, and his face is the very picture of happiness. 

“Let’s go home,” Louis smiles, takes his hand, and follows him out to the car.

*

A few days later, Harry introduces Louis to his fancy flat in the city. He claims it’s because he’s too tired to drive them all the way home after Louis’s physio appointment ends, but Louis suspects entirely different intentions. Harry smiles and waves the accusations away; as soon as they come up the stairs, though, his hands are on Louis’s hips, lips trailing down his neck.

“Really?” Louis asks, even as he tangles a hand in Harry’s hair and pushes back against him. “This is what we’re doing? I thought you’d give me a tour, make me dinner, you know—woo me.” 

Harry whines, and presses his pout to Louis’s cheek. “I’ll cook you dinner,” he promises. “Three courses and really good wine, but I really, really want you to fuck me right now.” 

Somebody drops something rather noisily behind the door they’re passing. It makes Harry giggle, but Louis feels like he can relate – he suddenly seems to have forgotten how to use his limbs. 

There’s just—something about it, about hearing Harry say it out loud like it’s not a big deal, like this is something they’ve been doing for years. That something is hypnotic, cosmic, _unbelievably hot_ , and it makes Louis hopelessly weak in the knees. 

They haven’t had time to do any of this yet, to just take a moment for themselves and explore each other now that they can, now that everything between them is out in the open. The mere possibility of it had Louis walking around half-hard the past few days, intensely uncomfortable in his breeches as Harry stood in the corner of the riding hall and watched him do stretches in the saddle. 

But now—now Louis has an entire day off ahead of him and it seems that, if Harry has anything to say about it, he’s going to spend it in bed. 

Not that he minds, of course. 

Harry is still pushing him gently down the corridor, past one shiny door after another, but Louis finds himself too impatient to wait. He grabs the lapel of Harry’s coat, spins him around, and presses him against the wall. 

Harry blinks at him with wide, dark eyes. 

“Are you serious?” he asks, and his voice comes out much huskier than he intended. 

Harry licks his lips. “Are you?” he asks, a playful smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “It’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about for months. _Months_ , Louis.” 

Louis desperately undoes his coat buttons, burning with the need to touch, and gets his hands on Harry’s hips. There’s a security camera on the wall right opposite them, and they’re giving whoever’s sitting in the control room a show, but he really couldn’t care less. He’s got _Harry_ right in front of him, in all his longhaired, long-legged, sparkly-eyed glory.

“Have you really?” he asks, leaning in to suck a bruise over his collarbone. Harry’s breath hitches, his hips jerking in Louis’s grip. 

“Mhm,” he hums, fingers running through Louis’s hair. “Been thinking—“ he stops to inhale when Louis’s fingers dip below his waistband, “thinking about you when I—ah—when I got myself off.” 

Louis is burning. He’s _burning_ , and Harry is grinning at him openly, because he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He leans in to kiss Louis, warm and pliant and hungry for it, and Louis meets him in the middle. The warm, smooth slide of Harry’s tongue against his, Harry’s hands in the back pockets of his jeans – it’s all so much more intense, suddenly, because it’s leading somewhere. 

“Bet you could open me up so well,” Harry says, and doesn’t give Louis room to process, to _breathe_ , before he’s kissing him again. “The angle’s never quite right when I do it to myself, but you could—your hands—“ 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Harry,” Louis bites his bottom lip, trying and failing to mask how desperately horny he is. He’s barely seen Harry shirtless, much less naked, and the thought—the thought alone—

“Anything you want,” Harry continues, relentless as his fingers dance across Louis’s arse, teasing and bringing their groins closer together at the same time. “I’d let you do anything you want to me.” 

Louis runs his hands through his hair, pulls on his collar, struggling to get closer, always closer. “You’re all mine, aren’t you,” he murmurs against Harry’s lips, where their kisses have turned from hungry to slow and searing. 

Harry pulls away. “All yours,” he says, completely serious, and manages to keep a straight face until he’s sure he’s caught Louis’s gaze and got his words across. Louis’s throat tightens at the sheer intensity in his eyes, the flame that burns there for him and him only. When Harry smiles, his lips stretch of their own volition, and when Harry giggles, Louis follows right along. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into Louis’s neck, a smile clear in his voice. “Come on.” 

It’s only then that Louis realises they’re still in the bloody corridor, their hair wild and coats askew, in plain view of anyone who might think of stepping out to fetch a newspaper. It’s not hot. It’s _not_. 

Harry catches his hand and bodily pulls him forward, tripping over himself with his hips swaying. This time, it’s Louis who gets to crowd against his back, heat to heat, and whisper things that make the tips of Harry’s ears go red. 

Finally, they arrive at the very last door, as shiny as the rest of them and adorned with a golden _28_. Harry’s hands are trembling just a bit when he fishes out his keys and fits one into the lock, twisting hastily. He looks so gorgeous doing something so completely ordinary, and Louis takes a second to step back and admire him, to marvel, really; because by some strange, wonderful twist of fate, this boy is _his_. 

He doesn’t get to see a whole lot of the flat. The hall is dimly lit but pretty, with an ornate hanger and a wooden chest of drawers – and that’s about as far as he gets, because in the next breath, Harry is slamming the door behind them and pushing Louis’s coat off his shoulders. 

Louis laughs and wraps his arms around his neck, responding to Harry’s enthusiastic kisses in kind. He thinks the plan of action might be to stumble their way around until they find the bedroom, but Harry—Harry. 

He reaches down, and picks Louis up by the thighs, just settles him against his hips like it’s nothing. Louis’s stomach floods with heat, and he can’t hold back the moan that escapes him. 

“Fuck,” he says into Harry’s lips, eloquent as ever. “Fuck, Harry—“

He rolls his hips, pleased to find that Harry’s as hard as he is, straining the zipper of his jeans. He aches to touch him everywhere, to get every part of himself on every part of Harry until they’re tangled irreversibly, two bodies moving as one in perfect harmony. 

He also wants to be inside Harry. He’s been virtually dreaming about his gorgeous little arse, his thighs, the whole tantalizing length of him; now that the image has been allowed into his mind, it refuses to leave, drawing his attention like a particularly annoying billboard. 

_HARRY SAID HE WANTS YOU TO FUCK HIM_ , it yells. _THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE._

 __At present, though, Harry’s fingers are splayed over his thighs, his arse, holding him up as they rut against each other in a way that’s as awkward as it is raw. Louis feels small and in control all at the same time, making Harry sway in place with haste to follow his lips when he pulls away.

He needs to get out of these bloody clothes. 

“Harry,” he barely gets out between kisses, clutching Harry’s shoulders and squeezing his thighs around his waist. “Harry, wait.” 

That seems to be the magic word – Harry lets go of his bottom lip with a soft little _smack_ , eyes wide and earnest and dark, dark green when he looks at Louis. 

“You okay?” he asks. There’s a tremble, the slightest note of insecurity hidden in the self-assured rumble of his voice. His fingers tighten where he’s holding Louis. 

“I’m golden,” Louis promises, forcing himself to be a lot more collected than he feels. He could beat out of his skin any second now, his heart thundering at a breakneck pace, a long-forgotten kind of heat gathering just under his collar, choking the words out of him. “I’m all good, you’re _wonderful_ ,” he says, because Harry looks like he needs it. “I just—I assume there’s a bedroom somewhere in this flat?” 

Harry’s happy, aroused blush seems to get a shade darker. “Course there is,” he says, and punctuates it with a peck to Louis’s lips. It turns into more of a snog, really, but Louis is not going to complain. “Bit too big for one person, though. ‘S why I don’t stay here very often.” 

“Well,” Louis grins, pulling Harry’s wild tangle of hair out of his face. “You’re in luck, cause there are two of us now.” 

Harry smiles. It might be the sweetest expression Louis has ever seen on his face, and that’s really, really saying something. 

“God,” he says, casual, “I really want you naked. Like, right now.” 

“Then take me to your ridiculously expensive bed,” Louis smiles back, holding on tighter as Harry peels him away from the wall. “Please,” he thinks to add, and throws in a kiss, just because he can. 

The flat isn’t that big (Louis thinks, anyways. He’s too preoccupied with Harry to notice anything other than that it’s made up of rooms), but the few seconds Harry takes to find the right door might be the most excruciating of Louis’s life. 

It’s just—Harry’s _moving_. Every single step jostles Louis from his comfortable perch and then brings them back together, creating delicious, cruel friction. Louis’s cock is still hardening miserably, pushing against his jeans like it has anywhere to go. 

“Ta-dah,” Harry grins when he gets the door open. He doesn’t bother to close it behind them, just ambles over to the bed – and it _is_ huge, complete with bedposts and a heavy, dark drapery; very princely and very, very Harry – and drops Louis into the pristine sheets. 

He doesn’t _actually_ drop him. Louis has watched entirely too much porn in his lifetime, and this is nothing like it – there’s no pawing or scratching or over-the-top animalistic grunts. Harry leans down and over him, looking into Louis’s eyes until his back settles against the mattress, and then smiles. Everything about him spells patience, even though he’d been rutting against Louis just as desperately as Louis was against him; they get to savour this, enjoy it, go slow. Or not, depending on how desperate they get once they actually see each other naked.

The point is, this is different. They’re in bright, burning, all-consuming love; Louis can feel it in every touch of Harry’s fingers, be it gentle or rough.

“Love you,” he whispers, just because he feels like it, and gets a brilliant smile in response. 

“Please take your shirt off,” Harry replies, making Louis laugh as he struggles out of his top. It only occurs to him then that he’s still sweaty and probably smells awful, courtesy of Niall as always, but any apologies he’s about to make die on his tongue when he sees the way Harry is looking at him. 

The look makes him flush all the way down to his chest with how earnestly intense it is. Harry is letting him see exactly how much he wants him, and Louis is so flattered he wants to cry. 

“You too,” he says before he gets too overwhelmed, tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt uselessly. “Off, come on.” 

Harry is kneeling over him now, and he grins as he undoes his buttons one by one. The sight of his chest is familiar, all soft, mouth-watering skin, but he reveals new planes and hollows and crevices when he shrugs out of his shirt, letting it slide to the ground without a care. 

It probably makes some sort of noise, but Louis wouldn’t hear it for all the blood thrumming in his ears. 

Harry’s just—holy shit. Holy _shit_. 

He reaches out to touch, and Harry lets him, smiling. His skin twitches underneath Louis’s fingers, and he huffs like he’s holding back a laugh when Louis’s touch ghosts over his ribs. 

He notices, and moves back with a little more intent. Harry squawks a laugh and grabs his wrist before he can do any damage. 

“No,” he says, clearly trying to be serious even as he smiles so hard his eyes have all but disappeared. “Stop it.” 

“You’re ticklish,” Louis says, awed, and sits up to attack with his other hand. 

“Am not!” Harry giggles, and rolls away, landing on his back a little ways away from Louis – and still on the bed, which is truly, truly ginormous. “This is assault, I’m going to _scream_ —“ 

“Shush,” Louis grins, shuffling closer until he can lie comfortably right on top of Harry, bare skin to bare skin. It feels almost frighteningly intimate, even though their trousers are still on. “I’ll file this away for later.” 

“Lou,” Harry pouts. His cheeks are red with laughter, his hair drawing a messy pattern on the cream-coloured bedspread. He’s—radiant. 

Louis kisses him, lazy and comfortable and not so much on edge anymore. He’s still shivering with little shocks of pleasure where his cock is pressing into Harry’s thigh, but it’s not urgent enough that he’d want to stop this, not when tastes so good.

“Sorry,” he says, not particularly committed to it. Harry reaches out and scratches him on the chest, barely hard enough to be felt, but he clearly intends for it to be a warning. “I love you,” Louis tells him then, so sweet it makes him blush a little. He rests one of his own hands on Harry’s chest, palm down and fingers spread across his skin, feeling the beat of Harry’s heart as it comes up to meet him. It feels—it feels like he’s staking a claim. Judging by Harry’s face, it feels the same for him. 

They look at each other in silence, comfortable and intense all at once. Then, Harry raises an eyebrows.

“Shall we?” he asks, with a lovely smile and a wicked glint in his eye. Louis is not one to back down from a challenge. He pulls himself up, ready to work on getting Harry out of his trousers, but then his hand slides down the pale skin of Harry’s chest, and he realises there’s something—something. 

There are bumps underneath his fingers, so small they’re barely there, but he’s intrigued immediately. 

“Harry,” he cocks his head, sitting back on his haunches and ignoring his protesting knee. “Did you—did you wax your chest?” 

Harry breaks into embarrassed laughter, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and the almost-gone flush in his neck returns in full force. “They told me nobody would be able to tell after a couple of days. I don’t even _have_ chest hair, I just…” and he trails off, hand still firmly fixed over his face. Louis tugs on his wrist until he manages to dislodge it. 

“You just?” 

He tries to shrug, wrinkling the bedspread underneath him. He’s looking to his right and out of the window, avoiding Louis’s eye. 

“Baby,” he tries, running his hands over Harry’s chest, his stomach, his hips. “What is it?” 

The pet name seems to do it. Harry meets Louis’s gaze, and he looks like he has a little trouble holding it, but he powers through. The green of his eyes is brilliant in the waning sunlight. 

“It was—“ he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “It was a thing for, um. For Will. Me being—I don’t know, just. He wouldn’t touch me unless I shaved. Said hair was gross.” 

Louis’s alarm must be clear to read on his face, because Harry puts a heavy, reassuring hand on his thigh. 

“I know it’s bullshit, I do. But I wanted to bring you over here, and I knew—I mean, I hoped we’d have sex, so I just did it automatically. Didn’t even stop to think about it.” 

Louis wants to march right out of the door, find this William type and, Duke or no Duke, punch him square in the face a good fifty times. He doesn’t matter anymore, though; his presence in Harry’s life is a ghost that might stay for a long time, but he can’t take away Harry, beautiful, confident Harry with his loud shirts and gorgeous hair and a heart so big it’s a marvel it fits in his chest. He can’t touch him anew.

Louis can, and he will. He’ll love him the way he deserves, if it’s the last thing he does. 

“You know I don’t care how much body hair you have, right?” he asks, just to make sure. His hands seem to be roaming Harry’s body all on their own now, petting his skin and soaking up the warmth.

Harry looks at him warm, open, sweet. “Of course I know.” 

“You’re the most beautiful person in the world, I swear to God,” he says, not done yet, and leans down to kiss his boy. “Stunning, baby. Gorgeous inside and out. I can’t believe I get to be with you.” Harry’s smiling too wide to kiss him, now, and Louis pulls away just far enough to look into his eyes. “I was grinning when I woke up this morning, did I tell you? The alarm rang, and I remembered I get to see you, and then I walked around the flat smiling to myself like a tit.” 

“Lou,” Harry giggles. 

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” Louis tells him, a hand over where Harry’s heart is beating a little faster than normal. “All because of you. I just want you to know that.” 

He’s shaking a little, dizzy with the amount of emotions he’s gone through in the past hour.

“Thanks,” Harry says, grinning even though his eyes are wet. The tenderness between them breaks as they laugh, makes space for something much more comfortable. “I love you,” he says then, and pulls Louis back down for a kiss, then another, just lazy presses of lips to lips that feel so good they make Louis’s toes curl. 

“I love _you_ , gorgeous,” Louis replies, grinning as wide as he did that morning when he stood in the kitchen with his tea, watching the street below and waiting for Harry’s car to pull in. “You wanna grow beards together? Just to piss him off?” 

Harry cackles. It’s beautiful and unrestricted, entirely fitting as he sits up and wraps himself around Louis, hair flying. He’s heavy and wonderful in Louis’s lap, fitting there like he was made for it. 

“Want to know something?” he asks, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret. 

“What’s that?” Louis asks, running his hands down Harry’s back. The skin there is warm and soft and endless.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he grins, and pressed the words into Louis’s lips with a kiss. Louis’s throat feels tight, his chest all but fluttering with happiness, and his head spinning with how overwhelming Harry is in every single way. 

“You’re laying it on thick,” he replies once he’s sure his voice isn’t going to tremble. “I feel like you want something from me.” 

“Is it working?” 

Louis looks at him, just takes a second to take in every little detail in his face. It’s so bizarre, all of it – he’s here, he’s alive, he’s walking, he’s running in the races, and he’s more in love than he ever thought he could be. He’s got this miracle of a boy who’s his, all his; if he has anything to say about it, he’ll get to have him until he’s old and grey and can’t remember a time when Harry wasn’t in his life. 

“I love you,” he says. It still feels exciting, fizzing on his tongue like a piece of candy. “And flattery will get you everywhere.” 

“In that case,” Harry grins and pushes on his chest gently, until Louis is lying under him again, “I’d very much like to get in your pants.” 

“Please,” Louis grins back. Harry’s eyes are all but sparkling when he attacks the button of Louis’s jeans. He’s very deliberate about pulling down the zipper, using the rest of his fingers to squeeze Louis’s poor trapped cock until he’s flushed and squirming. His lashes flutter prettily when he blinks, the grin on his face nothing short of coquettish, and Louis realises, with a groan that’s equal parts suffering and pleasure, that Harry Styles is a tease. 

As soon as the jeans are off, Harry moves back up Louis’s body, sliding his hands up his legs in a way that feels very deliberate. Louis is about to ask for a kiss when Harry’s palm brushes over the sensitive skin of his knee, and it’s only then that he remembers. 

Harry must realise too, and he stops to look down, then look back at Louis’s face. Louis has no idea what he’s thinking, but he’s panicking a little inside. 

He knows, rationally, that a few scars aren’t enough to put Harry off of him, no matter how gnarly they are. 

“Do they hurt?” Harry asks, quiet and genuinely curious. It’s—not what Louis was expecting. 

“No,” he says. He itches to reach out and tangle his hands in Harry’s hair, but he’s too far away. “They’re a bit sensitive because they never healed properly, but—no. I’m fine.” 

“Good,” he says, endlessly gentle. Then he bends down, and presses a kiss right to the top of his knee, then continues up the thigh, following the longest scar. The touch of his lips is so light that it’s barely there, but Louis feels it tingling all the way to his fingertips. It’s—hot, actually. Really hot. 

Louis hasn’t looked at his scars properly for as long as he’s had them, but he feels no hesitation, no disgust when he looks down at Harry and holds his gaze while he makes his way up. He finishes just below the hemline of Louis’s boxers, and he grins when he gets there, then sucks a bruise into Louis’s inner thigh. 

Louis gasps, half in surprise and half because he’s been hard for what feels like hours and Harry is killing him. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, with the air of someone who isn’t sorry at all. He doesn’t give Louis time to respond before he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and pulls it down. 

The air feels chilly on Louis’s cock when it’s finally free of the fabric, but it’s not the reason Louis shivers. It’s Harry’s eyes, suddenly dark when he looks down at Louis and breathes, so quietly in might be an accident: “Jesus Christ.” 

Louis is so overwhelmed he doesn’t even make the joke. “Come up here,” is all he manages, his hand extended until Harry is close enough to touch. He pulls him in and straight into a kiss, licking into his mouth and moaning when Harry’s tongue meets his. 

“You’re so—“ Harry starts, but Louis steals the words right off his lips. “Louis,” Harry reprimands, but he doesn’t say anything else when Louis gets his hands past the waistband of Harry’s jeans and the tight line of his underwear, right down to skin, and squeezes his arse. 

“Ow,” Harry mumbles, but arches his back just so, meeting Louis’s hands eagerly. He feels bloody _perfect_ under Louis’s palms. 

“Get your pants off,” Louis whines into his mouth, and ignores Harry’s answering laugh. “I’m not letting go.” 

He laughs some more as he reaches down and undoes the button of his trousers in the minuscule space between them. He looks flushed, excited, his hands trembling just a little. Louis is very pleased to see that he’s not nearly as cool and unaffected as he tries to act. 

“An arse man, are you?” he asks, grinning into Louis’s lips and trying to shimmy out of his trousers at the same time. 

“Have you _seen_ yours?” Louis grins back, squeezing a little to emphasize his point. “It’s just—God, it’s amazing.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says, fascinatingly sincere for someone who’s peeling their underwear off one leg at a time. “I do a lot of squats.” 

Louis’s brain is a lust-filled, hazy mess, and he just about manages to stop himself from saying something hideous and pornstar-cheesy like _squat on me, then_. Everything is too much in the best way, and he’s already hot all over, sliding his hands up the wide plane of Harry’s back and down to his arse again, dipping a dry finger between his cheeks, impatient and excited and curious. The skin there is hotter than the rest of Harry’s body, pulling Louis in, making him dizzy with the promise of what’s to come. 

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, boxers tangled somewhere around both their ankles. 

“Jesus,” he moans, keeping perfectly still while Louis explores. “Warn a guy next time.” 

Louis grins, not at all apologetic. Harry gets a glint in his eye like he’s planning something, and in the next second, his palm is wrapping around Louis’s cock—and his own, because he’s naked now, Louis hasn’t even had time to notice, _fuck_ —

“Love you,” Harry smiles, smug as all hell. Louis kisses him, bites his lip, and arches up into his touch. 

Harry’s cock, Louis discovers when he looks down between them, is just as pretty as the rest of him. It looks mouth-watering where it’s nestled against his own in Harry’s huge, huge hand. The friction is _good_ , so good it makes Louis squirm in the sheets, embarrassingly close to coming. He needs, needs to get his hands on every part of Harry, to taste every bit of him, right now. 

God, he hasn’t had sex in a _year_. 

The smug smile has gone, and Harry is slack-jawed, quiet grunts spilling out of his lips and he jerks them both slowly. He looks stunning where he’s holding himself up above Louis, his lips red from the kissing and hair drawing senseless patterns on Louis’s chest. He’s a fucking vision, and he’s Louis’s. Louis gets to kiss him, gets to hold his hand, gets to be inside him, unless he regresses back to his teenage years and comes before he can get around to it. 

“Baby,” he moans when Harry twists his wrists just so, skin on skin on skin. Harry moans right back, leaning down for a kiss, working up a rhythm with his hips as he rocks against Louis’s body. “Baby, hey.” 

“You feel so good,” Harry says, now on Louis’s neck, kissing him too sweetly to leave any kind of mark. “Don’t wanna stop.” 

“I’m—ah—I’m an old man, love. I can’t guarantee I’ll get it up twice in one night.” 

He will. He totally will, considering how long it’s been since another person has touched him; considering the fact that this is Harry, hotter than hell itself and very probably the love of his life. 

“That a challenge?” said love of his life asks, now licking around Louis’s nipples with a quick, precise tongue. He’s slowed his strokes, doing little more than holding their cocks together, but he still manages to sent shocks of heat up Louis’s spine. The way his hair follows him as he moves lower with his kisses, dragging along Louis’s skin shimmery and cool like rivulets of water, is mind-numbingly hot. 

“Absolutely not,” Louis replies, even as he lets his legs fall open when he realises where Harry’s headed. _Head_ ed, ha. “’M just saying. My stamina isn’t what it used to be, I wouldn’t want to fall asleep while I’m—“

“If you say balls deep, I’m kicking you out,” says Harry casually, doing a very bad job of hiding a giggle in Louis’s stomach. Louis chokes on his own saliva, makes a series of decidedly non-sexy sounds, and then bursts into laughter. 

“Not what I was going to say,” he says, grinning as he looks down at Harry. He’s stopped his little trip down the length of Louis’s body, and is holding on to one of his bent legs instead, a warm hand wrapped around the outside of Louis’s thigh and soft lips pressed to the inside of it. He’s holding Louis’s eyes, smiling into his skin. 

“What was it, then?” 

Louis shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to falls asleep while making love to you, is all.” 

Harry bites him on the thigh and crawls up Louis’s body, so fast he’s there between one blink and the next.

When they kiss this time, it’s slow, unhurried, lazy but alight with a steady, intense kind of fire. Harry licks into his mouth easily, a smile curling his lips when Louis’s tongue comes up to meet him. Their bodies tangle until they feel like one, until Louis isn’t quite sure where his own edges are. 

Harry pulls away with eyes shining. He’s got the softest look about him, and Louis expects him to be soppy right back. 

“You can’t get all romantic when I’m about to blow you,” is what he actually says. He manages to hold a pout for all of two seconds, and then his face melts into a bright giggle. Oh, how Louis loves him. 

“Can so,” he replies, picking a random strand of Harry’s hair to tuck back behind his ear. Harry moves into the touch. “I can get romantic whenever I want. You inspire romance in me, Harry Styles.” 

Harry laughs into his collarbone, boneless and giggly, and Louis laughs right along with him. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says. “I adore you,” he sighs after, happily. 

They lie there for a second, Harry’s warm breath on Louis’s chest, erections unsubtly pressed into each other’s thighs. Sparks dance along Louis’s skin everywhere they touch. 

“You going to blow me, then?” he asks into the silence. Harry laughs again, then props his chin on Louis’s chest to look him in the face. 

“Depends,” he says. “You going to fuck me afterwards?” 

“Wait and find out,” Louis smiles, heavy on the sarcasm. Harry bites his nipple, and the smile freezes on Louis’s face. 

It only goes downhill from there. Harry seems to be everywhere at once, touching Louis, petting and licking at his skin. By the time he takes Louis’s cock in his mouth, Louis is tacky with sweat and moaning into Harry’s pillow. He’s good – fantastic – but with lips like his, Louis wasn’t expecting anything else. 

More than anything, it’s Harry’s unbridled enthusiasm that does him in every time he looks down. He’s licking up the underside of Louis’s cock, then sucking on the head like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted; there’s a trail of spit on his chin, and his hair is everywhere, tangled and curly at the temples. He meets Louis’s eyes every time, like he feels him watching. 

Embarrassingly close as he was, it takes Louis a while to feel the telltale burn low in his belly. Harry gets him there with a quick tongue and expert hands, rolling his balls between his fingers, then sliding up to tweak his nipple before he’s had time to recover, grinning like the Cheshire cat every time he comes up for air. His lips have gone gorgeously puffy.

His hands are itching to touch where they’re curled in the sheets, to grab a hold of Harry and feel as he slides down – deeper each time, _God_ – and to have a hold of him, to feel less useless. And to warn him he’s about to come, probably, because he has a feeling he’s going to be speechless by the time he gets there. Harry’s playing him like an instrument, able to tell every time Louis teeters a little too close to the edge and pulling off, teasing, always teasing. He looks so pleased every time he gets a new sound out of him, every time Louis blushes a little with how loud he’s being. 

Harry pulls off and pulls his hair away from his face. He wraps one strand around all of it, and it stays, resting in a loose bun at the base of his neck. It looks unbelievably hot, and doubly as tempting. 

“Okay?” Harry asks him, one of his eyebrows cocked like he’s trying to be smug, but his eyes are soft, always soft. 

Louis clears his throat and tries to say something coherent. “Mhm,” is all he manages, and even then, it sounds like a soundbite straight out of a porn movie. 

“Am I…” he pauses, putting a dramatic emphasis on his next words, “blowing your mind?” 

He doesn’t wait for Louis to respond, just beams when he sees he’s made him laugh, and ducks back down. He takes Louis’s cock in his mouth – in his _throat_ , shit, oh, bloody hell – and makes up the rest with his hand, stroking in rhythm with the bobbing of his head, the fingers of his free hand dug into Louis’s thigh like he’s the one who’s been seconds away from coming for going on fifteen minutes. 

Harry presses his tongue against the bump just under the head, and every stroke feels like a shot of liquid fire straight into Louis’s veins. 

Fuck it, he decides, and buries his hand in Harry’s hair. 

The reaction is—not what he’d expect. He doesn’t like it when someone holds on to him while he’s giving head, most of the people he’s been with didn’t like it either, but of course, of course, this is Harry. He’s not other people. He doesn’t try to shake Louis off, or pull away and glare at him. No – he moans, the sound even prettier than normal when it’s muffled by Louis’s cock, and pushes up into the touch, making small noises until Louis closes his fingers into a fist and tugs in earnest. 

Harry moans again, real and loud, and the rumble of it feels like a shock to Louis’s cock, sending a shiver up his spine. 

“You like this,” he breathes. Harry looks up through his lashes; his pupils are wide, swallowing the green of his eyes, and he manages to smile even with his mouth full of Louis. “Oh _God_ , you’re filthy, aren’t you. What did I get myself into?” 

Harry pulls off with a sound that has no business being as hot as it is. “A relationship,” he grins, his mouth shiny, a streak of precome on his cheek. He’s gorgeous. “Where we feel comfortable with sharing our darkest, deepest desires. I like it when you pull my hair,” he says, and Louis pulls, just out of curiosity. Harry’s eyes flutter closed, and he breathes in sharply, holding still even as Louis curls his fingers tighter, makes his touch firmer. “I also really like to eat crisps with chocolate.” 

“Harry, I swear to God,” Louis starts, but he can’t hold back the giddy laughter that climbs up his throat. He’s so endeared, and so bloody turned on he might explode with it. 

Harry laughs right back. His cheeks are red now, rather than pink, and he looks inimitably satisfied with himself. Louis can’t really take that away from him; he’s never had sex that was this comfortable, or this good – or lasted this long, for that matter. 

“Just kidding,” Harry says, kissing his stomach. He takes Louis by surprise when he licks his cock instead of taking it in his mouth, a flat, warm tongue up the underside, then swirling around the head with a deftness that shouldn’t be possible. He’s clearly got a goal in mind now, finally done with the teasing; he squeezes around the base of Louis’s cock, jerks him fast but thorough, the slide easy. 

Louis’s orgasm catches him entirely by surprise, sweeping in like a tidal wave through an already restless ocean. One second, he’s following Harry’s touch, twisting in the sheets to be wherever Harry wants him; the next, the heat in his stomach explodes, shaking him down to the very core of his bones, and he can’t do much more than lie there with his muscles taut, Harry’s hands burning on him, stroking him through it until he feels spent. 

When he relaxes into the pillows, he realises his head is spinning. The air lies on his skin like a physical touch, heavy, hot and smelling of the two of them. He breathes it in gratefully, revels in it, and unsuccessfully tries to get his breathing under control. 

Harry slides up his body, all sweat-slick skin, and all but lies on top of him. Louis pulls his hair one more time just to get him close enough to kiss, holding his face in his hands as he does, fingers sliding over Harry’s cheeks. He’s so, so reverent about it, but he absolutely can’t help himself. 

“Hi,” is the first thing he says when he trusts himself to speak, the aftershocks of pleasure still fizzing in his fingertips, and then: “I love you.” 

Harry is hot and restless on top of him, his hard cock solid against Louis’s stomach, but he kisses back soft and lazy like he’s got nothing better to do. 

“Hi,” Harry replies, bringing their foreheads together, nuzzling Louis’s cheek, mouthing at his neck. Louis gives him every touch he seems to crave. 

“I feel like a changed man,” he says, and Harry snorts. He’s settled, arms folded relaxed next to his body, soft fingers on Louis’s hips, and he’s breathing deep like he could doze off right there. Louis would almost believe it, if it weren’t for the slow, steady hitching of Harry’s hips, seeking friction while Louis tries to get his wits about him. 

“Hey,” he says, once all his limbs feel like his again, mouth pressed to the shell of Harry’s ear. “I promised you something, didn’t I?” 

Immediately, the soft drowsiness disappears. “You said wait and find out,” Harry reminds him. Louis thinks he might be pouting. “You never promised.” 

“I was just saying,” Louis starts, and begins the process of extricating himself from the weight of Harry’s body, until he’s got his body spread underneath him, looking like sin itself against the pale sheets. “The chances of me getting it up again after you did _that_ —“ 

“You don’t have to fuck me,” Harry says, flushed, and stops restricting the instinctive movements of his body, his hips immediately pulling up as he tries to find relief in humping thin air. “Just—your fingers, anything, _please_.” 

Louis licks his palm and wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. Harry breathes out in relief. “Not slow and thorough, then?” 

Harry looks like he tries to smirk, but the expression falls clean off his face when Louis thumbs at his head. It’s really only now that Louis realises how desperate he is for it, how close to the edge, responding to every hint of a touch. 

“I want that,” he moans, face turned up to the ceiling, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut. “I want to feel you for days, I do, just—I wouldn’t last, I wouldn’t—I don’t—“

Louis leans forward, stealing his words with a kiss. “Shh, baby. I’ll give you anything you want, don’t worry about it.” 

Harry kisses back, messy. “Fingers,” he breathes. “Please, please.” 

“I need lube, gorgeous.” 

He groans, tugging on Louis’s hair once, equal parts playful and frustrated. Louis _loves_ this; loves seeing Harry flushed hot and frenzied and begging for it, for _him_. 

“Bottom drawer,” he breathes, throwing his arm across the bed and pointing to one of the bedside tables. 

“That a pun?” Louis asks as he reaches for it, one hand clutching Harry’s hip to steady himself. 

“What—“ Harry starts, but it must click then, because he lets out a cackle that tapers off into a moan when Louis rests the tube on his stomach. “I _hate_ you.” 

“Sure you do,” Louis smiles, gives him one more kiss, and gets to work. 

Harry tenses when the cap snicks open, strung tight underneath Louis’s hands as he makes the journey down his body. He doesn’t have the time to explore it the way he’d like, if Harry’s impatient little grunts are anything to go by, but one day. Tomorrow, probably. 

He lets himself pause when he gets to Harry’s cock, red and wet at the tip. The sight of it alone has arousal stirring in his stomach again, impossibly, and he gives it a couple of appreciative licks. Harry keens above him, his hand flying down to bury in Louis’s shoulder, somewhat painful but mostly indescribably hot. 

“Hold on,” Louis chides when Harry pushes him lower; his hands are shaking, and he needs a second to steady himself, lest he get lube all over the bed. 

“Can’t,” Harry whines miserably. When Louis looks up at him, he’s got one hand tangled in his own hair, pulling it away from his face sharply, and his hips won’t stay still, drawing figure eights in the sheets. “Need you, Lou, come on.” 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, awed. “Yeah.” 

He doesn’t stop to make it slow. He will, next time, but it’s not what Harry needs, not when he’s like this. They’d never even been naked together before today, but Louis only needs a single look at him to know. 

He slides one finger in easily, Harry’s body tensing around him, taut for a few seconds before he relaxes and exhales on a moan. Louis sucks a bruise into the soft skin of his thigh while he pushes in deeper, down to the knuckle, making sure Harry is used to the slide before he adds another finger. 

He’s _writhing_ now, clenched tight around Louis and alive with pent-up energy above him on the bed, one of his fists curled loosely in the sheets, the other running down his chest, distractedly thumbing at his own nipples. Louis has half a mind to stop him, to reach up there and pull Harry’s hand away by the wrist, but the sight has him paralysed. Harry’s skin is hot, shiny with sweat, flushed and just begging to be taken apart. He doesn’t have any inhibitions, doesn’t try to hold back the sounds that make their way out of his throat, the sounds that _Louis_ is stroking out of him.

It’s a little like looking at the entire universe spread out right in these sheets, all his. It makes Louis’s head spin.

“Another one?” he asks. Harry keens, biting the corner of his pillow, a stark white against the deep pink of his lips. 

Louis adds a second finger carefully, going slow enough that Harry tries to move down on the bed and meet Louis’s hand. He’s tight, even like this, and Louis’s blood pounds in his temples when he imagines being inside, getting to fuck into Harry while he looks like this, all gorgeous and disheveled. He strokes along Harrry’s walls, in and out, building up a rhythm that makes Harry’s legs twitch. 

He rubs his cheek over Harry’s thighs, the pale skin meeting the slightest bit of stubble he’s let grow in the past few days. He leaves it reddened, beautifully sensitive, hot under his lips when he presses a kiss there, then leaves a trail of love bites. There’s something animalistic in the pleasure it gives him, looking at something that he’s left on Harry’s body, that’s going to stay for days to come, going to remind Harry of him even when they’re not together. 

He crooks his fingers, searching for Harry’s prostate; when he finds it, barely brushing it before he slides away, Harry all but shoots off the bed. The arch of his back should be impossible, but he stays that way for a good few seconds, all but begging for Louis to come back, to finish him off.

“Please,” he says, _actually_ begging. He barely sounds like himself, his voice stuck somewhere deep in his throat, and his chest is rising and falling with a dizzying speed. 

Louis leans forward and takes him in his mouth, sucking on the head of his cock as he moves his fingers right back in, relentless. Harry whines helplessly, sinks his fingers into the mattress, and comes with the most beautiful sound Louis has ever heard. 

He sucks him through it, swallowing everything he’s got to give, running hands over his feverish skin. He wipes his fingers in the sheets, and Harry is too out of it to even tell him off. 

He kisses every bit of Harry’s body that’s within reach as he makes his way back up, pressing pecks into his hips and his stomach and the column of his throat. Harry is lying with his limbs spread out, breathing hard, his eyes glazed as he looks up at the ceiling. 

“Hey,” Louis whispers into his jaw. 

Harry takes a deep breath, then lets it out with a weak laugh. “Hey. _Hey_ ,” and he moves, finally, tangling his fingers deep in Louis’s hair, intertwining their legs, giving Louis the intimacy he’s been craving without being aware of it. Harry knew, though, and of course he did. 

“Hey,” he says again. He presses a smile into Harry’s collarbone. “How was that?” 

“I—really? You’re really asking me that?” 

“Can’t get better without performance reviews,” Louis grins. Harry’s looking down at him now, his eyes as green as they’ve ever been. He looks like a complete wreck in the most delicious way, and what’s best, he’s smiling at Louis like he hung the moon.

He shakes his head, and runs a thumb along Louis’s cheek. “I love you,” he says, low and serious. “This was the best sex of my life, and I’m never letting you out of this bedroom.” 

Louis laughs. Harry leans down trying to catch his lips, and he meets him in the middle. 

Kissing Harry feels like coming home. Not just now, though Louis has missed it greatly in the ten minutes he was occupied with something else; it’s like that every single time, whether they’re snogging against the wall at the back of the house while hiding from Liam or sharing a peck before Louis gets up on a horse and disappears down the track. Every single time, Louis’s world stutters for a second, and he’s reminded that he’s got somewhere to belong now. Someone to belong to. 

They look at each other when the pull away for air. The gentleness in Harry’s eyes is like a physical touch, soothing on Louis’s overheated skin. He thinks he sees now, why Harry had been so terrified to love again. Louis feels as if he were holding Harry’s heart, whole and beating, in the palm of his hand, and could drop it if he so much as breathes wrong. 

“Nap?” Harry suggests, his eyes already closed. Louis is both half-hard and bone-tired, and he doesn’t need any convincing. 

“Should I get off you?” he asks, though he’s not really sure who’s on top of who at this point. They’re both wrapped around each other so tight Louis feels Harry’s every movement as if it were his own. 

“No!” Harry says immediately, tightening his arms around Louis. “Absolutely not. Stay right here.” 

Louis grins, feeling heavy as sleep pulls at him. He presses one last kiss to the middle of Harry’s chest, then lays his head there, listening to Harry’s heart beating.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry mumbles. One of his hands has come down to rest on Louis’s leg, wrapped around the knee right where the scars sit. 

“Mhm?” 

“I’m really glad you’re alive.” 

Louis looks at him, at the angles of his face softened with sleep, the flutter of his lashes where they catch the last sunlight of the day. 

“Me too, darling,” he breathes, smiles, already falling head-first into a dream. “Me too.”

*

It’s dark when Louis wakes up. Harry is still breathing peacefully underneath him, the air is freezing cold on his skin, and—

And his phone is ringing. 

He almost breaks his neck diving to the floor, intent on shutting it up before it wakes Harry. He finds it buzzing along the floor in the back pocket of his discarded jeans, and he flips it in his hands blearily, trying to decline the call. Once he sees the screen, though, two things catch his attention: 

One, it’s two thirty in the morning. 

Two, it’s _Liam_ calling.

“What’s wrong?” he barks into the phone, picking it up without thinking and trying to orient himself in Harry’s bedroom in search of his own clothes. He pauses when he doesn’t get an answer from the other end, just strange, shaky breathing. 

“Liam,” he says, trying his best not to panic. “Liam, is that you?” 

More silence. Another long breath, an exhale straight into the microphone, and then a single, heart-wrenching sob. 

“Jesus,” Louis whispers, tugging on a t-shirt that probably isn’t his. “Liam, babe. What happened? Are you hurt?” 

“N-no,” Liam sniffles on the other end. Relief slams into Louis like a freight train. “I’m fine. Sorry, I’m fine.” 

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Louis tells him, zipping up hoodie that definitely belongs to Harry. He’s been awake for all of two minutes, but he knows already that he has to leave, and he’s taking a piece of his boy with him. “Where are you?” 

“Home,” Liam replies. There’s a shuffling noise on his end of the line, then the echo of footsteps. “I guess. I have to move out of here.” 

Dread pools in Louis’s stomach as he grabs the duvet and pulls it over Harry’s naked body, pressing a hurried kiss to his forehead. He thinks he knows what this is, and if he’s right—

“She’s gone,” Liam says, without prompting, and breaks into what sounds like a fresh wave of tears. “She’s _gone_ , Louis, I’ve cocked it all up, what am I going to do—“ 

“Liam,” Louis says, trying to be authoritative. He steps into his shoes without tying them and takes the stairs of Harry’s enormous complex three at a time, holding on to the railing for dear life. “Listen to me. Are you in bed?” 

“No,” he says. “No, smells like her, I can’t—“ 

“Okay,” Louis interrupts. “Okay, babe, listen. I’m on my way, yeah? I’m coming, but I have to hang up so I can call a cab. I want you to get a blanket and lie down on the sofa, just. Try and relax for a second.” 

Liam snorts. “Relax,” he mumbles, but Louis can tell by the rustling on his end that he’s stood up. “Wait, did you say—you don’t have to come here, Louis, it’s your day off, I wouldn’t want to—“ 

“Shut up,” says Louis. “I’m coming, and I’ll make a pot of tea, and you can cry as much as you want, just—hold on for a little while, okay? Hang in there. I promise you’re going to be alright.” 

He’s jogging down the street now, knee creaking unhappily because he jumped out of bed without so much as stretching, trying to catch sight of a cab. It’s a bloody Wednesday night, the alleys all but empty even in the city centre, wet and shiny in the streetlights. 

“Louis,” Liam says, small, sniffing into the phone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

Louis’s heart breaks. He runs once he rounds the corner, intent on getting to his best friend, waving at every car that passes just in case. 

“Neither do I, babe, but we’ll figure it out,” he promises. “I’ll be there soon.” 

And he hangs up then, even though it makes his chest hurt, knowing Liam would keep him talking. He dials a cab company instead, and he’s sitting in a car in five minutes, rattling off Liam’s address and trying to looks a little less frazzled than he feels. 

He’d like to have a stress cry right about now, but the cabbie is already looking at him with suspicion. It’s just—God, he was so happy a few hours ago, so content he can still feel the remnants of it clinging to him, and now he’s had to leave Harry, his wonderful, wonderful boy, alone without so much as saying goodbye. And his best friend is heartbroken on the other side of London, probably searching his kitchen cabinets for the booze that Louis threw out a long time ago. 

All of it will seem a lot less dramatic in the light of day, he’s sure, but right now—right now, looking at the flashes of the night sky scattered between high-rise buildings, he just wants to bury his head in his knees. 

He types out a text to Harry on the way, already missing him, guilt gnawing at his stomach because he hadn’t so much as left a note: _i promise i havent left liam needd my hlep be back as soon as i can love u so much_. it’s not his best, but he can barely see the keyboard through the cloud of sleep and tears that hangs in his eyes. 

Harry won’t be angry, he knows that. If anything, he’ll be concerned, but this—it feels wrong. 

He overpays the cabbie horrifically when they finally pull to a stop in front of Liam’s building, just throwing out the first notes that he grabs when he reaches into his wallet. He runs across the road, lets himself in, and suffers the stairs all the way to the fourth floor. 

Liam’s door is ajar, and the horrible feeling stirring in Louis’s gut gets stronger. 

“Liam?” he calls, shouldering in and taking off his shoes. He’s met with silence. “Liam,” he says again, and peeks into room after room. What he finds makes his blood pound in his ears with a sense of urgency, the worst kind of adrenaline fizzing in his veins. 

The kitchen is a mess – a couple of plates are lying broken in the sink, and there’s an haphazardly swept pile of shards on the floor. There’s a couple of dents in the wall, and bare nails littering the plaster like black holes where pictures used to hang. It’s like a cheesy movie set; Louis would almost laugh at how ridiculous it looks, but the weight of how real it is sits heavy on his shoulders. This is Liam’s actual flat, the table where he and Louis and Sophia had brunch not three weeks ago, the walls that they all painted when they moved in, a couple of months before Louis got himself stuck in hospital. Louis has a plethora of happy memories here, and seeing it this state makes breathing quite hard – he can only imagine how Liam feels.

The bedroom looks even worse, all half-filled drawers and wardrobe doors hanging open, the empty hangers rattling like branches in the wind. The rug has gone from the bathroom, and there’s a cracked perfume bottle lying on the tile, forgotten like it’s been accidentally swept off the counter. Even the hallway is a mess of wrinkled carpets and more missing frames, their silhouettes dark on the sun-bleached paint.

It’s a bloody _carnage_. 

He finds Liam, finally, right where he’d told him to be – curled into a ball on the sofa with his back to the room, blanket drawn tight around his shoulders. He’s trying to pretend that he’s asleep. 

“Hey,” Louis says softly, and the urgency he was feeling leaves his body in one enormous exhale. It leaves behind a dark, sticky kind of sadness. “Thought you weren’t here.” 

Liam’s shoulders still, then shake, like he’s deciding whether to give up his act. Louis crosses the room and sits next to him, effectively making the decision. 

“You told me to relax,” he says into the cushions. He’s buried his face so deep his ears are only just visible. 

“That I did,” says Louis, wrapping a hand around his ankle. “How are you?” 

It’s a silly question, and Liam laughs when he hears it. “Fine,” he says. “Feels like m’ life’s over, but I’m fine.” 

“Your life’s not over, babe. I know it feels that way right now, but you _are_ actually going to be fine.” 

Liam snorts. “Let me be dramatic for a second, will you?” he says, finally turning over. He looks—better. Better than Louis would’ve expected from the way he sounded on the phone, anyway. 

“Only if I can give you a cuddle.” 

He snorts again, but wastes no time rearranging himself on the sofa until he’s within reach, and Louis can wrap his arms around him. He feels exactly like he did when Louis hugged him goodbye after work a couple of days ago, warm and heavy and just this side of smelly, because _come on, Louis, who has time for showers when there are races to be won?_ ; and yet everything has changed. It’s there, hidden in the uneven rhythm of his breathing, even though he’s putting up an impressive front. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says into his hair, and ruffles it to distract from the thickness that’s crept into his voice. “I’m so sorry, babe.” 

Liam sniffles. “I just—just don’t know what to do. What do I do?” 

“I wish I knew,” Louis tells him. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this.” 

Liam squeezes him a little tighter. It hurts, but he’s not going to complain. “Can you,” he hiccups, “can you do me a favour?” 

He’s crying again. His tears are hot and clammy on Louis’s neck, and he just _wants_ so badly to be able to stop them; instead, he’s fighting a lump in his own throat. 

“Anything,” he says, and means it. He’d reach out of the window and tear down the sky if it would make Liam feel better. 

“Can you check up on her?” Liam asks, surprisingly even considering the tremor that’s running through his entire body. “When you leave, I mean. I’m—she was really upset, and I’m so worried, but I don’t think—I don’t think.” 

“Yeah,” Louis jumps in before he’s finished speaking. “Of course, yeah. I can do that. I will.” 

It’s going to be painfully awkward. He already dreads it, if he’s honest with himself, because Liam was his friend before Sophia was, but he loves them both, and this—this whole thing. It makes him feel like he’s drowning.

He feels, bizarrely but all the more desperately, like he needs Harry to help him through this. 

“Thanks,” Liam says. He continues crying in complete silence, not letting out so much as a hint of a sob, and Louis stares into the ceiling and ruffles his hair to try and make him laugh. 

“What happened?” he asks when he can’t stand the quiet anymore. “With the flat, I mean. The kitchen’s a mess.” 

Liam inhales. “She was just trying—trying to get out, packing her stuff. I told her I’d send it over later, but she already had her bag out, just throwing things in, and she knocked some off the plates off the shelf—“ 

“Did she take the mugs?” Louis asks, tentative but sure, somehow, that talking about it is what Liam needs. 

They had a pair of those ugly his and hers mugs that Liam bought at a street market when he was fresh out of school, off-white with dinky hand-painted flowers and chipped handles. Sophia was very loud about how much she hated them, and she’d only agree to drink from hers after they’d gotten together all over again, acting like they were freshly in love even though it was their fifth try at a relationship.

“Just the one,” Liam laughs, and then bursts into heartwrenching sobs. 

“Oh, babe,” Louis murmurs, and wraps one of his arms firmer around Liam’s shoulders. He’s powerless here, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. “I’m sorry.” 

“I love her so much,” Liam gets out, one of his hands curled into a fist in Louis’s t-shirt. “I love her, Louis. Why isn’t that enough?” 

Louis wipes away a stubborn tear. “I don’t know, Li,” he says, hugging Liam to him like he can physically keep him together. “I don’t know.” 

They stay there on the sofa, sniffling and clinging to each other, until the sky turns a dusty blue and the streetlights go out. Louis orders Liam to go to sleep several times, but he stubbornly stays awake, asking Louis hopeless little questions that break his heart. 

“You’ve got to go to bed sometime,” Louis tells him when the clock on his Blu-ray player reaches the end of another hour and displays a bright red six. “We’ve got to get back to work tomorrow. Can’t have you falling asleep on me while I’m trying to jump an eight-foot fence.”

“God,” Liam moans, his voice raspy from all the crying. “God, we have a race next week.” 

“Yep,” Louis smiles a little, happy to steer the conversation to a more comfortable topic. “We’re moving up to class two.” 

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” says Liam, and there’s a little spark in his voice, a hint of the playfulness Louis was looking for. It’s a victory. 

“I am,” he replies, patting his best friend on the head. “We’re coming in first this time, you’ll see.” 

“Yeah,” he breathes, quiet. “Yeah, I guess I will.” 

Louis hopes, against hope, that exhaustion is finally starting to catch up with him. “Bed?” he tries again, moving to support him while he stands up, but Liam pulls him right back down. 

“Can’t,” he says, and his breathing picks up suddenly, panic-fast. “There’s no way I can—no.” 

“I could change the sheets?” 

“No,” he repeats. “It’s not just—I can’t. God, I’m gonna have to go to a hotel.” 

“You can stay at mine,” Harry says from the doorway. 

_Harry_ says from the doorway. 

Louis’s head snaps up so fast he gives himself a crick in the neck, but the wave of relief that hits drowns out everything else. Harry looks messy-haired and rumpled and sleepy, but the sight of him is enough to make Louis feel a thousand pounds lighter. 

“What are you doing here?” he and Liam ask at the same time, though in very different tones. Liam, caught off-guard, starts furiously scrubbing at his face, as though he could make Harry believe that he hasn’t just spent hours crying into Louis’s shoulder.

“Neighbor let me in downstairs,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets and a small, sad smile on his lips. “And the door was open up here. I should have knocked, sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Liam sniffs, scrabbling to hide all his dirty tissues under a throw pillow. “It’s fine, I just—I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“I can go, if you’d like. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.” 

_Don’t_ , Louis wants to shout, wants to propel himself across the room and straight into his arms, because he’d wished—he wanted Harry here with him, and somehow, impossibly, Harry knew. 

“Don’t be silly,” Liam stands up and tries a smile. It sits a little lopsided on his face, but it’s a good effort. “Tea?” 

Carefully, Harry looks at Louis, searching for answers. Louis’s desperate eyes must give him one, because he turns to Liam and says: “Love some, thank you.” 

Louis is very near ecstatic to see Liam up and moving, and he wants to follow him to the kitchen and make sure he’s fine, really he does, but—

“Hey,” Harry says, low and worried, so worried, wrinkles all across his forehead. “Everything okay?” 

Wordlessly, Louis shakes his head. He untangles the blanket that’s trapped his legs and runs across Liam’s living room straight into Harry’s arms. 

“Hey,” Harry says again, and he holds Louis steady, holds him sure even though he doesn’t know what’s going on. “Lou.” 

“Sorry,” Louis says as he holds on to the lapel’s of Harry’s coat, face buried in his neck, breathing him in until everything gets a little easier to take. He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, runs his hands through his hair, across his face, down his chest. Harry’s _here_. “Sorry, I’m—sorry, fuck.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry pulls away, just enough to see into Louis’s eyes. “You’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry I ran out,” Louis says, the need to apologise heavier on his tongue than any other words he might want to say. “I didn’t think—I panicked, and I had to—“ 

“Louis,” Harry stops him, gentle and stern all at the same time. “It’s okay. You texted me, remember?” 

Louis does, but only vaguely. He remembers heaviness in his chest, and being short of breath, and the lights of London by night glinting off his phone screen as he tried to think of something to say. 

“Right,” he says, and his hands find Harry’s, slotting their fingers together. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I was worried,” he frowns. “About you, and about Liam,” he says, just as there’s a crash in the kitchen. 

“I’m fine!” Liam calls before Louis can run inside in a panic, but he’s still tense where Harry’s holding on to him. 

“Is _he_ okay?” Harry asks. 

“No,” Louis tells him, and it’s the truth. “You heard him, I really—I really don’t think he can stay here right now.” 

“I meant what I said, Lou,” says Harry, with that brand of earnestness that’s entirely his own. “If he needs to get away, he’s going to mine.” 

Louis smiles. “Did you ask him if he wants to?” 

“Nope,” Harry smiles back. “I pay him. My word is law.” 

He makes to go into the kitchen, but Louis pulls him back by the collar and gives him a kiss. 

“I love you,” he says, and Harry beams in response. 

“Love you,” he replies, and pulls Louis behind him by the sleeve. 

They find Liam bent over a teapot, idly stirring a spoon inside it. His hair is drooping into his eyes, and it takes him a while to realise that someone else is in the room. 

“Oh,” he says once he straightens up and spots them in the reflection of his gleaming cupboards. “Sorry, taking a while. Couldn’t find the tea.” 

He looks exhausted in the new light of the morning, dark bruises under his eyes and a web of creases fading on his cheek from when he dozed on Louis’s shoulder. His clothes are hopelessly wrinkled; he looks like a very sad kicked puppy, and Louis wants nothing more than to wrap him in a blanket and stick him in a bed. 

He squeezes Harry’s hand, then lets go, and crosses the kitchen to wrap around his best friend. 

“Let’s drink this,” he taps the warm ceramic of the teapot, “and then leave.” 

“We can’t just—I have to call first, book a room somewhere?” he’s frowning, speaking slowly like he’s not sure if he’s saying the words right. 

“I already told you, you can stay at mine,” says Harry, and takes a careful step closer. He checks with Louis, a hesitant look, before he reaches out to touch Liam’s forearm. “I’m so sorry, Liam.”

“Thanks,” Liam whispers, smiling ruefully.

“This is the least I can do for you, yeah? I’d be more than happy to have you.” 

“Come on,” Louis pats him on the chest. “You sit down, Harry’ll get some cups out, and I’m going to go and pack you a bag.” 

“I feel like a baby,” says Liam, but he sways on his feet even in the three steps it takes to get to the kitchen table. “I can pack my own clothes. And I can’t—Harry, are you sure?” 

The smile that Harry gives him warm Louis all the way down to his toes. 

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he pours the tea. “You can stay as long as you need. Forever, even, the house is big enough that you can avoid me when I get on your nerves.” 

Liam smiles a little. It looks genuine. 

“Plus, you can get more work done this way.” 

“Oh, you’re right,” Liam perks up. Louis would make fun of him for being a workaholic, but he’d really be the pot calling the kettle black. “You’re right. We’ve got a race in six days.” 

“So you’re coming?” Harry grins. 

Liam grins back. It’s weak, but it’s there, and Louis suddenly realises that a few toothy rays of morning sun have crept into the kitchen. 

“I’m coming,” he says, and squeezes Louis around the waist. 

They’re all going to be okay.

*

As Louis soon realises, there is an issue with Liam staying at Harry’s – namely, Louis has no reason to leave anymore. Niall comes by every other day to “hang out”, as he puts it, and he does Louis’s physio with him in between raiding Harry’s kitchen and regaling Liam with stories about that one patient of his who has a really smelly bellybutton.

They’ve also abandoned the concept of working hours, staying up drinking beer and talking strategy long into the night, then getting up at dawn to get the most out of the track before it gets too warm outside. Harry trails them everywhere, asking endless question and holding Louis’s hand just because he can; it’s very, very difficult to convince himself it’s time to go when it gets dark, and most nights, he ends up curled around Harry in the master bedroom. 

Liam seems to flourish under the influence of nature, Harry’s cooking, and Martha’s terrifyingly delicious smoothies. It also helps that Louis and Marshmallow run their race, then another one, and win them both. Impossibly, she gets moved up to class two, and they enter fixtures with names that Louis has actually heard of before. He gets an article in a Donny paper, complete with his picture, and his mum sends him a dozen copies. Harry giggles when he reads it and realises it says _the Styles stable_ , but he also cuts it out right there on the kitchen table, puts it in a frame, and hangs it above the fireplace. 

On a absurdly humind day in late July, Louis walks inside the house to the sight of Harry stretched out on one of the fancy sofas in the lounge. He’s wearing a loose pair of joggers and nothing else, waving a hand around as he tries to dry his freshly painted nails and using the other one to flip through a Basquiat book sitting on his lap. 

He’s so absorbed in it he doesn’t notice Louis enter, and he takes advantage. He tiptoes across the room, his steps muffled in the rugs, and lets Harry know he’s there by tugging on the tie that’s holding his bun together. 

Harry doesn’t so much as flinch. “You walk like an elephant,” he says, unimpressed, but Louis can see the sharp cut of a dimple in his cheek. He hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder and kisses it, breathing in. 

“I missed you too, darling,” he grins, and waits until Harry’s finished the page to ask for a kiss. 

“Hi,” Harry smiles when he connects their lips, licking into Louis’s mouth just the way he likes. “Are you done with work?” 

“It’s too hot,” Louis says – whines, really. He’s spent the last two hours in the corral with Liam, trying to help him fix a log in the fence that Marshmallow had kicked down. He feels the sun on his skin even in the protective shadow of the house. 

“I know,” says Harry. “I went outside for a while, but it just didn’t work.” 

Louis laughs. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping yourself cool,” he says, and reaches out to pinch Harry’s nipple. He just manages to duck the touch, kicking his book to the ground as he tries to move across the sofa without ruining his nails. 

“Stop that,” he says, eyes sparkling, “and join me.” 

“In being half naked, or lying on the sofa?” 

“Both, please,” Harry replies, already going for the hem of Louis’s vest. 

“I’m sticky.” 

“Don’t care, I want a cuddle.” 

“Harry—“ 

“Lou.” 

Louis almost feels giddy when he finally gives in and strips, dizzy from the heat and overjoyed to be with Harry again. They were apart for less than five hours, and neither of them actually left the property, but Louis has missed his boy. There’s nothing wrong with that, thank you very much. 

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Liam is wandering out there somewhere, and will probably come in any second. He’s also very much aware of Harry sprawled on the sofa with his arms open and a smile on his face, and really, Liam has seen way worse. 

“Hello again,” he kisses into Harry’s collarbone as he crawls over the back of the sofa and manages to land without kneeing Harry in the balls. 

“Hello,” Harry replies, burying his nose in Louis’s hair. “You smell like horse.” 

“’S what happens when you spend the morning sitting on top of one,” Louis says. He wiggles until they’re side by side, the warm skin of their torsos touching in a way that’s wonderfully sticky and grounding and _real_. The spot where Harry’s shoulder meets his neck still smells like the lemon body wash they used in the shower that morning, and Louis presses his face there contentedly. 

“How was she?” Harry asks.

Louis laughs. “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic cuddle. A sexy cuddle, even.”

“I mean—I can make it into foreplay if you want,” says Harry, and the smile is already audible in his voice. “Oh, _Louis_ , I wish you could’ve spent the morning sitting on top of _me_.” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Louis shrieks, unable to curb his laughter. “I can’t believe you.” 

“You’re the one who complained,” Harry replies. When Louis looks up at him, he’s wearing his smug face – the one that makes his look like a satisfied toddler. A gorgeous satisfied toddler, but a toddler nonetheless. “I was just trying to have a conversation.” 

Louis kisses the grin right off his lips. “I wasn’t being serious, smartarse. I don’t mind a work cuddle if it’s with you.” 

“You’re too sweet to me,” Harry says, and his smile softens. “Ruins my fun.” 

“Says you, Mr Let’s Get Married And Have Seventeen Babies.” 

“I never said that,” he laughs, dimples prominent in both his cheeks. 

“Did so,” Louis pecks him. “You were tipsy though. Maybe you don’t remember.” 

He’d been more than tipsy, if Louis is honest. Completely hammered would be more accurate – they were celebrating his and Marshmallow’s first win, and Harry had broken out a very expensive bottle of tequila. 

“I—really? What did you say back?” 

“I said,” Louis grins and throws one of his legs over Harry’s hip, “let’s do it. And then you fell asleep on top of me.” 

Harry covers his face. While he waits to see his eyes again, Louis can’t help tracing the wonky lines of his hand; can’t help imagining a pretty rose gold band settled low on his ring finger, worn with time. 

“I love you,” Harry says. The tips of his ears have gone red. 

“Love you too,” Louis kisses him on the chest. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’re very comfortable to sleep under.” 

“I take it back,” he says, peeking out from between his fingers with an eye that seems to be laughing. “I hate you.” 

“Come here,” Louis laughs, burying both his hands in Harry’s hair and pulling gently until he tips his chin up and lets his palm slide off. “There you are,” he says, and proceeds to snog the life out of him. 

It’s wonderful and lazy, warm like the summer air around them. Harry keeps smiling into the kiss like he just can’t stop himself, and Louis—Louis feels like he’s got the whole world at his fingertips. 

“We’ll get to do that, you know,” he mumbles when they separate, just far enough that his words meet Harry’s lips as he says them. “Get married, and have the most bloody gorgeous wedding. William and Kate who?” 

“Will we ride through the city in a carriage?” Harry asks. His eyes look suspiciously shiny, and he cups Louis’s face in his hand, then tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Course we will,” Louis smiles. “They might even close a couple roads for us if we give them enough money.” 

“Paying off the City Council, how romantic,” Harry grins back at him, his cheeks red. “What else?” 

“Well,” Louis pretends to think, drawing an absent-minded heart on Harry’s chest. “We can have enough kids to start our own football team, how about that?” 

“I’d like that,” Harry says. He’s beaming so wide it must hurt a little. 

“Good,” Louis leans in for a kiss. “We’ll have it all, gorgeous. Get ready.” 

“Born ready,” Harry shoots back. “Would marry you tomorrow if I could.” 

“I have physio tomorrow,” Louis pouts. “Thursday would work, though.” 

It’s then that they crack up, slumping into each other and mouthing at skin as they laugh. Louis is filled to the very brim with bright, fizzing happiness. He settles on Harry’s chest, listens to the rumble of his voice and the strong beating of his heart, and wonders how he ever got this lucky. 

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Harry says, rubbing at a knot he’s found in Louis’s shoulder, “how was Marshmallow?” 

“Good,” Louis sighs, content. The summer heat has crept inside, and pulls heavily on his eyelids. Maybe he’s got time for a nap before Liam barges in and demands that he do something or other. “We finally jumped that fence.” 

“The five foot?” 

“Yep,” Louis replies, smiling a little at the palpable excitement in Harry’s voice. “Nice and clean, landed well. I even managed to stay in the saddle.” 

Harry chuckles. “I’m so proud of you both,” he says, and presses a kiss into Louis’s hair. 

“It’s all her,” Louis promises. 

“Our little miracle horse.” 

Louis laughs, and looks up to where Harry’s eyes are already on him, green and endlessly warm. 

“You’re my miracle,” he grins. 

Harry beams right back. “And you’re mine.” 

Louis leans up for a kiss, and Harry gives it to him happily, running warm hands over Louis’s naked back. Louis wishes he could take a snapshot of the moment in its entirety – of the way his stomach flutters, and the shock of breath against his cheek when Harry breaks into giggles.

But then, he realises as he opens his eyes, he doesn’t need a snapshot to remember what being with Harry is like. He’s going to get to live it for the rest of his life. 

Surprisingly, it’s not Liam’s untimely arrival that tears them out of their bubble – it’s, once again, Louis’s ringtone. 

“Pick it up,” Harry mumbles against his lips, but doesn’t let go. 

“Don’t want to,” Louis mumbles back, too absorbed in giving Harry a perfectly round love bite. “They’ll leave a voicemail.” 

“Louis,” Harry says, in that voice that tries to be strict but really ends up impossibly fond. He reaches out to the coffee table, pushes away his bottle of nail varnish, and grabs Louis’s phone. “Pick up. I’ve got to wee anyway.” 

Reluctantly, Louis pulls away and rolls off. He gets absorbed in the play of Harry’s muscles across his back, and only remembers to accept the call at the tail end of his ringtone. 

“Hello?” he answers, without bothering to look at the screen.

There’s breathing on the other end, and Louis’s stomach suddenly feels like it’s filled with lead. He _knows_ who that is.

“Simon,” he says tightly. 

“Louis,” Simon replies, fake jovial. “It’s good to hear from you.” 

“You’re the one who’s calling me. By mistake, I assume?” His voice is so hard it all but scratches his throat as it comes out, but Louis can’t help himself. His last encounter with Simon is still very fresh in his memory, intensely humiliating even though he came out the winner. That’s what every conversation with Simon is, really – a fight. 

“Oh no, not at all,” Simon drawls. Louis can just about imagine him sprawled in his hideous Herman Miller chair. “I just happened to come across a copy of the Yorkshire Post, and imagine my surprise when I saw you right on the cover. It’s been a while since that happened, eh?” 

“It has,” Louis smiles tightly. He stands up and walks across the room, not wanting to have this conversation on the sofa that’s still warm with Harry’s presence. “I was injured, I’m sure you remember.” 

“Indeed. And what a horrible injury it was.” 

Louis bites his lip and stares out of the window. A couple of horses are grazing nearby, hiding in the protective shadow of a tree. Liam is running up the hill just below the horizon, mallet over his shoulder and Bubble hot on his heels.

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“Well, Louis,” Simon starts. Louis’s name sounds like an insult coming out of his mouth. “Seeing as your…injury doesn’t seem to be a problem, I would like to invite you to sign a new contract.” 

Louis blinks. “Sign—what? With _you_?” 

“Of course,” he replies, and there is a smile audible in his voice. Louis wants to reach into the phone and punch him in the face. “This horse you’re riding now—you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you must see that she’s at the end of her rope here. Aintree is months away, and you’re not going to make it there.” 

“You know nothing about horses,” Louis tells him, picking at one of the heavy curtains hanging on either side of the window. There’s an aggressively bitter part of him that wants to come out, inject his words with the same casual derision that Simon is so fond of. 

He won’t let it, though. He’s _better_. 

“You do remember the size of my stable, yes?” 

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re just money to you. My horse is just getting started, and I already told you – I look forward to running against you come April.” 

“Really?” Simon asks, and some of his carefully constructed composure chips away. “You want to stay. There are no opportunities for you there, you have nobody to work the press for you, to build up your name again. Do you really want that?” 

“It’s not a question,” Louis snorts. There are light steps behind him, and then Harry’s arms wrap firmly around his waist, chasing away every bit of tension that’s settled in his shoulders. “I’m staying here, and I want nothing to do with you.”

He laughs. He laughs, and Louis desperately wishes it didn’t make him feel small. 

“I love you,” Harry whispers when he hears, kissing Louis’s shoulder. Louis turns his head just so, enough to see him looking red-cheeked and peaceful, breathing Louis in with his eyes closed. 

“Fine,” Simon says, intruding on Louis’s peace. “Have it your way. I’ll give you double the money.” 

Louis is startled into a laugh. Simon really, actually wants him. He’s not just calling to play his fucked up mind games, he actually—God. 

“I don’t want your money,” he says. “I don’t want—you know what? Nevermind. Goodbye, Simon.” 

And, before he has time to chicken out, he pulls the mobile away from his ear and ends the call.

The silence that follows is kind of deafening and kind of defining. He stares at the screen for a few seconds, expecting Simon to call right back, used to getting whatever he wants. He doesn’t. 

“Babe,” Harry whispers when the quietness hangs in the air for too long, weighing uncomfortably on Louis’s chest. “Okay?” 

“He wanted—“ he stutters, taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the situation. “He really asked me to come back.” 

“He can’t stand to see you succeed without him, can he,” Harry murmurs, keeping his arms firm around Louis swaying them in place. “Thinks _he_ made you who you are.” 

Louis bites his lip. “Didn’t he?” he asks, eyes fixed on Liam and the yearlings, now sliding downhill through the grass. 

“Of course not,” Harry smiles into Louis’s shoulder. “Not at all.” 

And Louis believes him. 

He tosses his phone behind them, aiming vaguely towards the sofa, then turns around so he’s facing Harry. The sun that slants in through the window paints him rosy and gold, with green, greenest eyes. 

“Are you tempted?” Harry asks when Louis says nothing for a while, just drawing an endless swirl on Harry’s chest with the pad of his finger. 

Louis blinks. “To go back?” 

“Just asking,” Harry shrugs. “You can, if you want. I wouldn’t—hold it against you, or anything.” 

“No,” Louis shakes his head, going after the slightest hint of uncertainty that colours Harry’s voice. “I’d never. I’m at home here. With you.” 

And he realises, just then, that he’s telling the truth. The realisation of it is absolute, and it feels like sweet honey spilling over his bones. This skin, these arms, the heart that beats so closely to his own they might as well be one – this is what home is. _Who_ home is.

He thinks of his flat, left empty more often than not. He hardly ever finds himself missing it. 

It’s not tall ceilings that make a home, or that fantastic shaggy rug mum gave him as a housewarming present. It’s not the best view in the city, or his dinky kitchen with burn marks on the ceiling. 

It’s his favourite boy in the entire world. It’s _this._

 __“Ever the romantic,” Harry grins, dimples sweet in his pink cheeks. “I love you.”

Louis leans forward, nestles his face against Harry’s neck right where his skin is the warmest. “Love you too, darling. Can I stay?” 

“Tonight?” 

Grinning, Louis takes his hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of forever, actually.” 

Harry grins right back, “Please.” 

A few days later, Louis gets in the saddle with a kiss still burning on his lips, and soars straight to victory.

*

The news catches him on a Monday afternoon, strolling down the aisle of a Sainsbury’s and trying to keep Liam and Niall in check. They’d talked him and Harry into a _lads’ night_ , and then all but dragged Louis out to help them shop.

Niall is currently acting like a madman in the liquor aisle, and Liam, excitable as ever, is not far behind.

Louis has a headache. 

“We’re not going to drink all that,” he tells Liam when he staggers to the trolley with a 24-pack of Carling. “Put it back.” 

“No,” Liam says, and manages to deposit it between the seven variety packs of crisps that Niall insisted on. “Niall says we need it.” 

“Niall has a shit taste in booze,” Louis replies. He’s playing with his phone, opening and closing the messages app. Harry hasn’t responded to his last text. He did say he need to get some work done, but Louis is _bored_. “Also—what is that?” 

“Tequila,” Liam beams, holding up three very expensive-looking bottles. “Niall says—“

“You hate tequila,” Louis points out. He slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, suddenly interested. “You vomit every time you so much as smell tequila. What’s going on?” 

Liam puts the bottles in the trolley, suspiciously red around the ears. 

Niall bounds over out of nowhere, all but vibrating with excitement. Louis likes him without the clipboard and the ugly work clothes, but he could never have anticipated the amount of energy that lay under his workaholic surface. He’s been going since Louis’s training session at five in the morning, and he doesn’t show any signs of stopping. 

“Louis,” he exclaims, like this is the first time they’ve seen each other today. “My good man. Tell me – have you ever had a salty chihuahua?” 

“I really hope that’s a drink,” Louis replies, smiling a little despite himself. 

“That it is,” Niall grins. “Prepare to have your mind blown.” He claps Louis on the shoulder, and then he’s off again. Louis barely catches him mumble something about pretzel sticks. 

“Salty chihuahua?” he turns to Liam, and finds him staring into the distance, just past the soup cans. “Liam.” 

“What’s that?” he asks, putting on a smile. A gear turns in Louis’s brain, little by little, and then—he can all but hear the click. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” he says. “Liam, oh my God.” 

“Let’s go get chasers,” Liam tries, but Louis already has fingers clenched in the sleeve of his jacket, not letting him move an inch. 

“You like Niall.” 

“We all like Niall,” Liam replies. He appears to be intently studying the tiles on the ceiling. 

“No, you _like_ Niall.” 

“For God’s sake, Louis,” says Liam, but his exasperated act has too many cracks. He’s blushing underneath his beard. “We’re not in primary school.” 

“You actually do,” Louis breathes. “You like him, this is the best thing that has ever—“ 

“Don’t tell him,” Liam tries to butt in, pouting sadly. “Don’t—“

“You _like_ him. You like a _boy_ , I can’t believe I lived to see this day—“

“Stop being a prick, Jesus—“ 

“You like Niall!” 

Before Liam can murder him in cold blood right there in the canned foods aisle, Louis’s phone rings. Normally, he’d ignore it in favour of bullying Liam into a confession, but it’s Harry’s ringtone. 

He picks it up automatically, ready to spill Liam’s secrets, but the fast breathing on the other end of the line stops him. 

“Harry?” he asks. 

“Lou,” Harry wheezes. Louis is suddenly on the verge of panic, but there’s something in Harry’s voice – something that sounds happy, even ecstatic. “Louis, you got in.” 

Louis’s brain goes blank. “We got in…” 

“The National! You’re on the starting list, please come home, I have to kiss you right now—“ 

“The National?” Louis shouts. Dozens of heads turn towards him, but he only sees Liam’s eyes as they widen, only hears Harry’s sweet voice. “No fucking way. Oh my God, are you serious—“ 

“I just got the call.” 

Louis can just imagine him, sitting in his office with a breathless smile on his face, looking out to where Marshmallow is no doubt getting up to mischief with her herdmates. 

He quite literally folds down on the ground, leaning back against a display of discount beans. There are tears stinging in his eyes, but the inside of his chest feels like a hot air balloon, expanding with endless happiness, with excitement. 

_He’s going to run in the National._

“I’m going to run in the National!” he tells the entire shop. Harry cackles in his ear, and Liam pulls him up into a clumsy, euphoric hug, and Niall slams into them mere seconds later.

There’s a member of staff walking towards them. Rationally, Louis knows they have to leave, but he feels frozen in place, in the moment, in the feeling of goosebumps all over his body and the kind of elation that makes him dizzy.

“I _love_ you,” he impresses into the phone, wrapping an arm around Liam as he abandons their trolley and drags them all out. “Harry, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry laughs. “Come home.”

*

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” Harry points out.

Louis, too busy sucking on his straw, gives a non-committal hum. 

“I’m serious,” Harry continues, sipping his own milkshake at a much more sedate pace. He looks peaceful, almost serene in the setting sun; there’s nothing about him to suggest he’s nervous. Louis is jealous. 

“I know you are,” he manages to say. As soon as he lets go of the straw, his leg starts bouncing. The excited energy travels inside him spastically, ricochets from twitchy eyes to shaky fingers to impatient feet. He’s a mess, really. 

“Come here,” Harry takes pity, putting his cup on the ground and extending an arm, opening his side. Louis slides across the hood and nestles under there, happy to be surrounded by Harry’s warmth. 

He was finally brave enough to get his car out of Liam’s garage, and Harry got the honour of going on the first ride with him. They drove by the BHA offices and whooped with the windows down, and pulled into a drive-through when they got thirsty. They’re in a supermarket car park now, battling with their ginormous milkshakes while the sun goes down. 

It’s not the most romantic of places – kind of barren, really – but nobody knows them here, and they’ve turned off their phones. Tonight’s for them, wherever it might take them next. 

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Harry asks, idly, like he already knows the answer. 

“Probably not,” Louis responds, one hand sneaking into the pocket of Harry’s jumper. “You’ll have to knock me out.” 

“Or wear you out,” Harry replies. Louis doesn’t need to see his grin to know it’s there. “Liam said he’s staying at Niall’s, we can be as loud as we want.” 

“Always are,” Louis smiles, pulling him down into a kiss. “Wait—Liam’s staying at Niall’s?” 

“I know,” Harry laughs. “I tried to ask what they were planning on doing, but he shut the door in my face.” 

“You do realise we have got to get them together, right?” 

Harry hums. “Maybe we should just let fate do its thing. True love finds a way, and all that.” 

“True love has never met Liam Payne in denial,” Louis replies, and takes a small, calculated sip of his milkshake. “He probably thinks it’s too soon. After—you know.” 

“It’s been a couple of months,” Harry frowns. “Probably more before they actually broke up, I don’t think that’s too soon.” 

“Try telling him that,” Louis scoffs. “We’ve got to help them along.” 

Harry makes a noise of agreement, leaning back on his arms. Louis watches him, watches the last rays of sun paint over his eyelids, and feels, for the first time in a good few days, calm. 

“Ah,” he sighs. “Young love.” 

Louis bursts out laughing. “You make it sound like you just celebrated your diamond wedding anniversary.” 

“ _Our_ diamond wedding anniversary,” Harry chides gently, opening his eyes to look at Louis. “Besides, I just—I feel like I’ve always known you.” 

“How do you mean?” Louis asks, letting his empty cup thunk to the ground and mimicking Harry’s position. He leans into him to press a kiss below his jaw, just because he can. 

“I don’t know,” says Harry. His voice is as soft as the touch of the late March sun on Louis’s skin. “It’s just that…I think I knew since the beginning. From the first time you called me _love_ , when we crashed into each other on the street. I knew I was going to love you.” 

Louis’s heart feels too big for his chest. “You mean when you cleaned my cane with your ridiculously expensive scarf?” 

Harry giggles. “I panicked,” he says, frowning playfully as Louis presses small kisses to his face. “I had no idea what I was doing whenever I was around you. Felt like the clumsiest person in the world.” 

“Aw, darling,” Louis smiles at him. “I mean—you _are_ , but—“ 

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry drawls, and pushes back against Louis’s body until Louis is sprawled over the hood of his own car, feet just barely touching the ground and his boyfriend looming above him with a bright grin on his face. “That was uncalled for.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis laughs. “You’re not clumsy. You’re graceful and—and fluid, like a water dancer. A ballerina. A very coordinated baby deer—“ 

“Stop it,” Harry laughs, and doesn’t give Louis a chance to be a smartarse. He leans forward, hair tickling Louis’s collarbones, and gives him a very thorough kiss. 

Louis sighs and melts into it, lazily tangling a hand in Harry’s hair. Every last bit of nervous energy leaves his body, disappearing into the air exhale by exhale. The sun is warm on his face, the metal of the hood warming his aching back. The whole thing makes him feel infinite, settled and calm and clingy – so cling he does. 

Harry squeaks in surprise, but he lets Louis pull him down as he hugs him around the neck. 

“You’ll be great,” he says, as if reading Louis’s mind is something he does every day. “You’ll leave everyone in the dust, and I’ll be at the finish line waiting for you.” 

“You’re not supposed to know I’m freaking out,” Louis mumbles. 

“It’s a little hard to miss, babe,” Harry huffs. His breath tickles on the back of Louis’s neck, just reminds him how very real and alive Harry is. 

Reminds him that there’s something, someone, waiting to catch him no matter how this race goes. 

There are two more days to go, and then it’s all over. He’s going to retire, and he can only wish, can only hope, that it’s with a Grand National win under his belt. 

He’d dreamed about the track last night, even though he’s never actually been to Aintree. He saw himself on the back of a horse he didn’t know, jumping Foinavon, Becher’s Brook rising in front of him until it grew tall enough to obscure the sky, branches toppling to the ground with enormous thuds—then one of them swept him out of the saddle and he woke up shivering in Harry’s arms.

Point is, he’s not handling the nerves very well. 

“Tell you what,” Harry whispers, still holding him even though he has to be in pain by now, bent over uncomfortably as he is. “When we come back home after, I’ll give you a prize.” 

There’s nothing particularly suggestive in his tone, but Louis’s mind immediately goes there. He’s only human, after all. 

“A prize?” he asks, pulling away with a grin. 

Harry rolls his eyes longsufferingly, as if he’s not the one who woke Louis up at six this morning with some very insistent neck kissing. 

“A prize,” he repeats, straightening up. Louis lets him go, but he keeps his hands on his hips, anchoring him firmly in the open vee of his thighs. 

“Do I get to pick what it is?” 

Harry leans into him, soft and gorgeous and biting his lip. “You do.” 

Louis is torn. He imagines Harry spread out on in their sheets, flushed and messy-haired and with his hands tied to the headboard, at Louis’s mercy and so, so excited about it. 

But then—then he imagines something else.

“I want to know what you do.” 

“What I do?” Harry asks, perfectly innocent like he doesn’t understand. It makes Louis want to chase him around the car park like they’re kids until he gives in and tells him the truth. 

“Your job, Harold. You talk about our diamond wedding anniversary, but I still don’t know what you do for a living.” 

Harry blushes. It’s not the pleased little blush he gets when Louis manages a particularly good compliment, either – it’s a dark pink, real, embarrassed flush. He’s _embarrassed_ , and that’s not a look Louis sees on him often. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he sighs, immediately sheepish. He’s only ever gotten anywhere with Harry by being patient with him. Maybe this isn’t—maybe he shouldn’t—

“I’ll tell you,” Harry says. He’s smiling, just a little. It goes a long way in reassuring Louis he’s okay. “I will. I’ll tell you right now, if you want.” 

Wordlessly, Louis takes his hand and squeezes. 

He takes a deep breath, chin buried in the fluffy fabric of his scarf. There’s a breeze that tosses his hair around on top of his head, sending curls and waves flying until Louis reaches up and tucks them behind Harry’s ear. 

“It’s alright, baby,” he reassures. “I don’t care if you’re an assassin—I mean, I do care, but I wouldn’t leave you because of it. You’re not an assassin, are you?” 

Harry gives a hopeless little giggle. “I write songs,” he says, so soft the wind almost carries it away. 

“You what?” Louis asks, even though he heard.

“I write songs,” Harry repeats, louder this time, and his shoulders sag as tension seeps out of him. “I write songs, and then I sell them, and sometimes they get on the radio. It’s—kind of silly, really.” 

“ _What_ ,” Louis gasps. “It’s not silly. I can’t think of anything less silly than songwriting.” 

His mind is instantly alive with images – of Harry behind that beautiful piano in his office, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbles something down; Harry pacing in the lounge while Louis and Liam are outside, chewing on a pen, humming note after note until he finds what he was looking for; Harry writing lyrics, jotting down everything that goes on in his gorgeous mind while Louis sleeps beside him. 

It’s—it’s perfect. It’s exactly what Louis would have imagined him doing. 

“Well,” Harry chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Mum doesn’t think so. She wanted me to go into banking like her and dad.” 

“She’s wrong,” Louis says before he can talk himself out of it. “I mean—I’m sure she’s a nice lady, of course, but she’s wrong. You can do anything you want to do, and I bet you’re so good at it.” 

“I’ve never shown you any of my songs,” Harry mumbles, but his reluctant smile has turned into a full-on beam. He’s unsuccessfully trying to hide it. 

“I just know,” Louis shrugs. “Your office is full of poetry books, I bet you’re fucking fantastic, the next Lennon and McCartney even though there’s just one of you—“

Once again, Harry shuts him up with a kiss. It’s little more than a press of lips to lips, really, because they’re both grinning too hard. 

Louis pulls him closer by his scarf, squeezes his little hip with his knees, put his hands on his chest and his waist and the dip of his lower back until he’s satisfied that his boy is feeling better. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, and it’s so earnest it puts a crack in Louis’s heart.

“You’re welcome, darling,” he whispers back, smiling. “Anytime.” 

The sun is gone now, dipping lower below the horizon and pulling all the colours out of the sky, leaving shades of blue behind. The car park is quiet around them, save for the whistling of wind around the trolley shelters and the whisper of it in the trees across the road. Louis thinks he can hear Harry breathing. 

There’s cold creeping into his fingertips, threatening to chase them both into the car any minute, but before they go, he takes Harry’s face in his hands. 

“So,” he smiles, running a thumb over the sleepy purple underneath his eyes. “Have you written any songs about me?” 

He’s joking, but Harry stops where he is, halfway to leaning in for a kiss. The corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I have,” he admits quietly, the pink painting his cheeks again. “Wrote one last night, actually.” 

The revelation feels like a drug in Louis’s veins, fizzing through his body until he feels himself blushing too. 

“You wrote a song about me,” he says, beaming. “That’s like—Hollywood stuff. You’re a proper fairytale prince.” 

“I try,” Harry beams back. 

“What’s it called?” 

“Um,” Harry coughs, sheepish. “Olivia?”

*

“I love you,” Louis tells him later, when they’re folded together in the backseat, half-naked against their better judgement. “I love you I love you I love y—“

“You’re never going to stop with this, are you?” Harry grins, undoing the button of his jeans. He bangs his elbow against the metal part of the headrest, but he braves through it. 

“You wrote a song about it,” Louis says. He only sounds a little accusatory. “You _love_ it.” 

“I live for you, I long for you,” Harry sings, smug in a way that looks particularly attractive on him. The tinny recording on his phone did absolutely no justice to his voice, just this side of rough and downright aphrodisiacal. 

“Hey hey,” Louis deadpans, but leans across the minuscule space between them anyway to give Harry a filthy, filthy kiss. “We should stop.” 

“I know,” he whines. “But I literally can’t wait until we drive home. Sorry.” 

“You look it,” Louis scoffs. He’s managed to roll down his jeans and pants, sitting bare-arsed on his Italian leather seats while he attempts to free his legs. It’s quite possibly the least sexy thing he’s ever experienced, and yet he’s been hard for going on fifteen minutes.

It’s something about Harry, he thinks, something about the graceful way he navigates the tiny space, about the play of his muscles underneath his skin as he struggles out of his clothes. 

Louis was going to get in the car and drive, he really was, but then Harry played the recording. Now they’re—well. There’s something to be said for the power of song. 

“You going to hurry up?” Harry grins, head tilted to the side because he’s too tall to sit up, an impish grin firm on his face. 

“Why don’t you find the condom and lube instead of being a smartarse?” Louis asks. Harry smiles back at him in the most lovesick way, like he’s caught on to Louis’s secret strategy of making every insult on earth into a pet name.

“Already done,” he says, holding up a tube and a foil packet. Louis only just notices that his own backpack is lying open at his feet. 

“Clever boy,” he grins, finally kicking his jeans off. The cuffs are tight enough to take his socks with them, and he’s immediately cold, but Harry is mostly naked and very, very fit right in front of him. His freezing toes will wait. 

They meet in the middle for a deep kiss, legs and hands slipping on the seats. Harry moans beautifully when Louis goes straight for his arse. Louis keeps hearing that same voice on a loop in his head, singing along to a sweet, happy melody – _the summertime and butterflies all belong to your creation_.

“I love you,” Louis hums into Harry’s neck, where he’s working on a love bite. “It’s all I do.” 

Harry laughs, a little frenzied, his nails digging into Louis’s back. A sheen of sweat has risen over his body despite the cold, hot and salty on Louis’s tongue. 

He wishes, desperately, that he had the time or space to do this properly. It’s like that every time, no matter where they are or how they’re doing it – every time, he wants to get Harry to a bed, to get him flushed and moaning and trying to find friction in thin air before they do anything else. To take time biting his inner thighs, licking his nipples, kissing his chest until the frantic beating of Harry’s heart leaves a quiver in his lips. 

They don’t have anything else to do tonight, he reasons. They can have another round as soon as they get home. 

“How do you want it?” he asks, straight to the point lest he actually explode. It’s the quick, sudden kind of arousal that stirs in his gut, building with no way to escape. 

“On my back,” Harry gasps out. Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry bites his lip to shut him up. “I’ll make it work, wanna see you, come on.” 

Louis lets him go, watches him twist and slip and finally relax as he lies down, arms behind his head and fingers wrapped around a handle in the door. He manages to make all of it look mind-numbingly hot. 

He’s back with him in a second flat, sucking on his tongue as he tries to open the lube without looking and get it on his fingers. Some of it dribbles down in the space between their bodies, a shock of cold on overheated skin. 

“I can’t believe we’re having sex in public,” Harry laughs, trailing off on a gasp when Louis grips his thigh, moving it to the side for better access. Harry’s cock is hard and red trapped right against Louis’s, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement between them about what they want to do. “I feel so dirty.” 

“Semi-public,” Louis protests, sucking a bruise into the thin skin over Harry’s collarbones. He keeps grinning for no reason, and it’s difficult to make it look the way he wants, so he goes back again and again until Harry’s squirming and shaking and tugging on his hair. “There aren’t any people. Besides, we’re in a car.” 

“You know what they say about knocking if the car is rocking.” 

“I think it was a house, actually,” Louis replies conversationally, dipping a finger between Harry’s cheeks. He’s half-falling off the seat, one leg kneeling on it and the other braced on the floor, but that only seems to intensify the jumpy excitement in his veins. “Ready?” 

“Do your worst,” Harry grins. 

Louis doesn’t need any more prompting. He lines up his finger and slides it inside Harry easily, and the now-familiar heat welcomes him right home. Harry tenses, just like he always does, the beautiful line of his back arching off the seat. 

It really gets better every time, Louis thinks. There’s always something new to find, a way to crook his finger that makes Harry whimper, or a patch of skin that he’s never kissed before.

He finds it today when he slides a second finger in a moment too soon, spurred on by Harry’s pretty begging. He’s tight, too tight, and it must hurt a little if the way he clenches is anything to go by. Louis panics a little (a lot) and immediately goes to pull his hand away. Then, three things happen in very quick succession: one, Harry reaches out to touch Louis’s shoulder. Two, he shakes his hand vigorously as soon as Louis meets his eyes. 

Three, he _moans_. It sounds like it takes all of his breath away, and it’s so loud Louis’s ears ring with it even after the sound has faded. 

Harry looks—wild. His hair is strewn over the cream-coloured seat like little rivulets of water, messy and perfect, and his eyes look black in the absence of light. He’s staring at Louis with his mouth open, panting, and the little teasing spark has disappeared from his face, replaced by something that makes Louis feel a little like an animal. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he breathes. 

“That’s the idea,” Harry manages, knuckles going white around the handle he’s still holding on to. 

“This good?” Louis asks, tentative, and pulls out his fingers a little only to drive them right back in. 

Harry’s body ripples like a wave, unbridled and absolutely stunning. He gasps a sound that seems torn out of his throat, the hand that’s still on Louis’s shoulder tightening until Louis feels nails digging into his skin. 

“It’s good,” Harry says, turning his face into the backrest. The flush has started creeping down his neck, painting a bright spot right in the centre of his chest. “It’s _good_ , Lou, please—“ 

“Yeah,” Louis gasps, entirely shaken with Harry’s reaction, with the way he pushes back against Louis’s fingers, chases a stretch that _has_ to hurt. 

He works in and out of Harry’s body a little quicker than he normally would. He feels frazzled, wild, burning out of his skin with the force of the need he’s feeling. It’s something about where they are, he’s sure, but most of it is the immediacy with which Harry is chasing him, not letting him take his time like usual. 

Still, he waits until the slide is effortless, until Harry’s body welcomes him, pulls him inside greedily. 

He leans forward to kiss Harry’s neck, the side of his face, clumsy but too hungry to stop. The windows have fogged up around them, droplets of water trickling down and disappearing into the upholstery. A few of them glisten on Harry’s fingers. 

“Want another one?” he asks, rutting against Harry’s thigh and desperately trying to stave off the orgasm that’s already building low in his stomach. He needs to be inside Harry more than he needs to get off. 

“Please,” Harry says, turning his head and chasing Louis’s lips until they’re kissing, hot and wet. Louis runs his tongue along Harry’s when he works the third finger in, and steals the moan right out of his mouth. He lets out these uncontrolled, gorgeous little sounds, _ah ah ah_ s that go straight to Louis’s cock, the tips of his fingers where he’s stretching Harry open as fast as he’ll allow himself. 

“Shh, baby,” he says into the feverish skin of Harry’s jaw, keeping one hand on his hip to keep him from slipping off the seat. The way his hips are tilted towards the backrest makes it easier to find his prostate. 

Harry all but melts underneath him when he strokes it, gentle but relentless, hyperaware of Harry’s cock trapped between them, smearing precome all over Louis’s stomach. 

“Shh,” Louis says again, just to let out some of the air that’s sitting heavy in his lungs. The entire car smells like them, smells like sex, and he bets – hopes, but that’s neither here nor there – that the scent will linger for days. “Just relax for me, darling, that’s it. Can’t fuck you until you’re nice and stretched.” 

“You suck at dirty talk,” Harry growl-laughs, stealing a kiss and all of Louis’s breath all at once. He’s sweating, a few strands of his hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are shining bright enough to be galaxies. Louis doesn’t quite know how he’s still capable of talking, not when Louis himself can barely string a sentence together. 

“You love it,” he says, giving Harry’s bum a light-hearted smack. Harry’s nostrils flare, his eyes closing for the smallest moment. 

“Fuck me, come on,” he says, chest heaving. “I’m ready, always ready for you, just—“ 

“Yeah,” Louis replies, genuinely dizzy as his blood rushes through his body like a wild river. “Hold on, hold on, I’ve got to—“ 

He breaks off on a moan when Harry reaches down as far as he can and squeezes his cock. He’s so _close_.

Harry whines when he pulls his fingers out, and Louis misses the heat of him immediately. His hands shake as he gets the condom on, and he gets lube all over his thighs, but he manages it before Harry sits up and decides to do it himself. 

His knee twinges as he lines up, protesting the weight that he’s put on it, but it’s background noise compared to the sight of Harry’s legs, gorgeous and pale and never-ending, lifting to let him in. He rests one on Louis’s shoulder, bites his lip happily when Louis presses a kiss to his calf, and braces the other one of the roof. 

Louis would laugh, but it’s just—too hot. 

Harry sighs when Louis guides the tip of his cock inside him, only stopping for a second before he pushes on. They both moan when he bottoms out, their shaky breaths in perfect unison. Louis covers Harry’s body with his, and leans down far enough to connect their foreheads. 

Just like that, the urgency is gone. A sweet, bubbly kind of happiness sweeps through Louis’s veins as he feels the heat of Harry’s body crawl through him, feels Harry’s ragged exhales against his own lips, feels every little twitch of his muscles where he’s holding his leg. The air is heavy, thick enough to cover them both like a blanket, to erase every sound that isn’t their hearts beating into each other, settling into a perfect, erratic rhythm. 

Harry runs a hand through Louis’s hair, hopelessly clenching his fingers. Louis opens his eyes, and finds his boy already looking at him, unblinking and vividly green. 

They hold each other’s gaze when Louis starts moving, slow and heavy the way they both like, meeting every roll of Harry’s hips. It’s when he speeds up that Harry’s eyes close and he breathes out, his hands on Louis’s neck, on his cheek, unwilling to let him go too far. 

Louis feels every place their bodies touch like a brand. He feels every single breath that Harry takes, as if it the air was traveling through both their chests. He feels—he _feels_ Harry tremble and shake and all but break himself open every time Louis thrusts, drawing out desperate little moans. 

He kisses Harry’s neck, so softly he can just barely feel the pulse thudding underneath his lips; kisses his collarbone, his cheeks, and the dark pink bow of his lips. 

They meet gently, kiss lazily like they’ve got all the time in the world. It feels like they do, right now, like they’re out of time and space. Harry’s lips are soft, almost tentative, the way they used to be before he got used to Louis kissing him. It feels like he’s learning Louis again, like they’re starting something anew even though they never stopped.

They’re making love, still, even cramped in the backseat of a car. Louis is so happy he could cry. 

His next thrust is deep, thorough enough that Harry’s arms aren’t enough to keep him from sliding up on the seat, the muscles of his biceps straining. Louis just barely slips a hand between the door and the top of his head. 

Harry grins, silly and blissful, as he meets Louis’s hips. 

“This is ridiculous,” he whispers, arching his back. “We’re too old for this.” 

“You’re twenty-two,” Louis whispers back, grinning as he shifts. He manages to change the angle, gets Harry moaning instead of talking, skin against sweat-slick skin. He _is_ aching all over from trying to navigate the tiny space, but he wouldn’t get out even if he could. 

He’s been teetering on the edge for what feels like hours, and Harry has gotten so loud he has to be close, too, but Louis wants—he wants to stay in the moment forever. There’s something perfect about it, sweaty and uncomfortable as it is. 

“Love you,” he breathes as he dives forward, chest to chest and hitting Harry’s prostate with every thrust. He’s got tears pooling in his eyes, though he’s not sure where they came from. “Love you so much, my gorgeous boy, so good for me—“ 

“I love you,” Harry interrupts, so shaky he can barely speak but determined to get the words out. “I— _God_ , fuck—“ 

Louis reaches forward with his free hand, finding Harry’s where it’s wrapped around the door handle. Harry lets go as soon as he feels him there, twists his wrist until he’s got his palm up, waiting. Louis intertwines their fingers, holds Harry in place as he slams in again and again, frenzied and overwhelmed. 

Harry comes with Louis’s name on his lips, a desperate, drawn-out sound. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He’s the very picture of sin, the stuff of Louis’s most desperate dreams, arching off the seat. He’s endless, or so he seems to be. He’s the only thing Louis can see, the only thing he can feel, spilling over the seats like molten gold, clenching around Louis’s cock, he’s prefect, beautiful—

Louis sees stars when his orgasm finally washes over him, a flurry of colours he didn’t even know existed dancing on the back of his eyelids. Harry digs his nails into Louis’s back, holding on and still gasping for air, the two of them coming down together. 

Louis’s skin feels sticky, clammy as the warm air around them meets the windows and turns into water. He could be stuck to Harry, for all he knows, and the prospect seems absolutely wonderful just then. 

They’re slowly sliding off the seat, Harry on his back and Louis on top of him, pressing absent-minded kisses to his chest. Louis has still got one foot on the floor, and he tries to tense it to keep the two of them just the way they are for a little while longer. 

Harry clears his throat. “So that was fantastic,” he says casually. Louis laughs.

“I love you,” he says, the only thing that seems to want to come off his tongue, and blindly navigates one of his hands into Harry’s hair. Harry curls into him immediately, purring like a cat and leaning down to kiss Louis’s forehead. 

“You’re the kindest man in the world, do you know that?” 

Louis smiles tiredly. “Because I let you seduce me in the back of a Mercedes?”

Harry tuts, but he’s smiling too. “I’m being serious. I never thought I’d find someone like you.”

“Baby,” Louis breathes. 

“Didn’t think there _were_ people like you, for a while. I just—I forgot how good life was, you know? You made me remember.” 

Louis refuses to cry. He resolutely swallows around the lump in his throat, and tips his chin up to kiss Harry as gently as he can manage. 

They stay close when they pull apart, smiling into the minuscule space between them. The corner of Harry’s mouth looks a little wobbly, but Louis can tell, by the sparkle in his eyes and the warmth in his own chest, that his oncoming tears are happy ones. 

“You did the same thing for me, gorgeous,” he says, pressing the words into the soft skin of Harry’s cheek. “Hell, I used to think I had nothing to look forward to. What good’s a jockey without a leg, right? But you…” he trails off and pulls away, just enough to look Harry in the eye. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt, and he must look a right fool doing it, but there must be something about it – Harry looks at him for a quiet second, two, then takes Louis’s face in his hands and all but snogs the life out of him. 

It takes them a few more hours to get home.

*

Aintree is the most terrifying racecourse Louis has ever seen.

“This is the most terrifying racecourse I’ve ever seen,” he tells everyone in the car. Harry, who is dozing on his shoulder, chuckles quietly. 

“You can’t even see the racecourse,” Liam points out, as the only other person who is actually awake. He’s right, too – even the building itself is little more than a speck in the distance. “I promise it’s not that bad. You’ve seen it on the telly a million times.” 

“This is not the telly, Liam,” Louis whispers aggressively. “I have to _run it_ in less than twelve hours, I’m allowed to be losing my mind.” 

Liam sighs. “Do that, then.” 

Louis would normally expect to be talked down, but he can see why Liam is busy – as it turns out, six in the morning on Grand National Day is not the best time to arrive in Liverpool. Dozens of cars are sitting in the streets, rolling past the city’s park at a snail’s pace. There is a painfully turquoise Fiat crawling ahead right in front of them, and looking at it is giving even Louis a headache. 

He’s buzzing with too much nervous energy to contain, and he desperately wants to wake everyone up and make them listen to his complaining. Harry had been up with him all night, though, and he looks comfortable where he’s snoring into Louis’s collarbone; Olly and Ellie are both in the very back, too far for him to reach, and if he disturbed Niall in the front seat, there’s a possibility that Liam would flay him.

So Louis sits, miserable and all but vibrating out of his skin, and watches the trailer through the back window. He thinks he can sense Marshmallow’s presence there, her energy that’s just as high-strung as his. 

They stayed in Birmingham last night; she was so antsy Olly had to sleep in the stall with her, and she’d fidgeted all morning too, barely standing in place while they waited for Liam to back in with the car. It’s not like her to be nervous, but Louis knows, he _knows_. She can feel how different this one is, how important. 

“Don’t worry, lovely girl,” he whispers to nobody but himself. “We’ll leave them all in the dust.” 

The roads are a little less congested once they get out of town, and they arrive at Aintree a little before seven. The sun is already up, shining in through the windows hot and bright as everyone wakes up. Harry leans up to kiss him before he’s even opened his eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, an echo of the words he kept repeating last night, lying in bed wrapped around Louis while he was having a minor breakdown. “You’re meant to do this, remember? You’ve already won.”

“Good morning to you too, love,” Louis smiles at him, sorting out the tangled strands of his hair. It looks golden brown in the sunlight, shining like precious metal between Louis’s fingers. “Let’s go win us a trophy.” 

Harry holds his hand and they all stumble out into the car park one by one, stretching like they’ve been cramped in it for days. Liam just manages to hand out the lanyards he’s got ready before an official jogs over to them, helping Olly to unload Marshmallow. 

They lead her inside, and she goes calmly, if a little huffily. Louis watches her go with a heavy, warm kind of anticipation, because this is _it_. The end of the line. 

Harry doesn’t let him go as they go through registration and paperwork and signatures, doesn’t let him go while a peppy young stable lad shows them around the stable, and doesn’t let him go when they get the go-ahead to walk around the track. Ellie and Niall have disappeared in search of breakfast, and it’s just the two of them and Liam peering around the obstacles. Bizarrely enough, Louis calms down further with every step he takes. 

The Grand National had always been a fever dream, a distant _someday_ that he’d whisper to himself when he snuck off to follow it on the telly in-between helping mum with housework. Even when Simon took a chance and signed him on, Louis never _really_ saw this waiting for him at the end. He didn’t think himself big enough, good enough to run with the best of them. 

Here, today, holding Harry’s hand and staring up at Becher’s Brook, he feels big enough to take on the world. 

“What d’you reckon, then?” Liam calls from where he’s mapping out the first turn. He’s got a clipboard with him, jotting down some notes then frowning at them. It’s the way he looked when they first met at Simon’s estate, and Louis loves him something ridiculous. 

“I reckon I’ll live,” Louis laughs. 

Harry squeezes his hand. When Louis looks at him, he’s biting his lip, eyes on Foinavon right in front of them. 

“They’re really high,” he says, with so much concern it makes wrinkles appear on his forehead. “The fences, I mean. Marshmallow seems so small in comparison.” 

“She is,” Louis says. “We told you that very first time we met, remember?” He has to smile a little at the memory, thinking of Harry’s sheepskin jacket and red cheeks and eyes so bright they got underneath Louis’s skin and never let him go again. “But she can do this, love. She loves to run, you know that, and I have just as much faith in her as you have in me. We’re going to win this, both of us.”

“I’ll cheer the loudest, then,” Harry says, and a reluctant little smile plays with the corner of his mouth. Louis leans forward and kisses it into a grin. 

The sky is a brilliant blue above them, the spring sun sprinkling warmth down the collars of their shirts, and the air echoes with birdsong. There is no madness just yet, no thunder of hoof falls rattling the ground underneath, no noise coming from the empty grandstands. It’s just Louis, his boy, and—Liam tugging on Louis’s belt loop until he’s forced to break the kiss. 

“What are you—“ Louis starts, but Liam raises a stern finger in his face. Behind Louis’s back, Harry bursts into giggles. 

“Not the time for canoodling,” says Liam, entirely serious even through the twinkle in his eye. “We’re on a schedule, gentlemen.” 

“Are we,” Louis raises an eyebrow. “Because I could _swear_ I saw you talking to Niall about bringing you back some crumpets when you were supposed to—“ 

“Enough of that,” Liam interrupts, but he’s definitely laughing this time. “I need to go check on our horse, and you’ve got to go and see if the valet brought all of your clothes. Weigh-in starts at twelve,” he pauses to look at his watch, “and it’d be good to get in early, so _please_ be ready.” 

“Yes, your excellency sir,” Louis salutes, holding back his laughter. Harry, who has no such qualms, is snickering in delight. He’s managed to take his shoes off, and he’s prancing in the wet grass like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Anything else?” 

“I’d love it if you could _shut up_ for five seconds,” Liam tells him. “But no, not until warm up. Two thirty.” 

Louis pretends to write the time down into an imaginary notebook. Liam steps forward, slaps him upside the head, and then gives him a hug. 

“I’m not going off to war,” Louis mumbles into his shoulder. “You’ll see me in twenty minutes when you’re panicking about only having three backup pairs of goggles.” 

“Do we only have three?” Liam immediately goes to pull away, panicked, but Louis puts a hand on the back of his head and holds him in place. 

“No. I brought _all_ of my goggles, Liam. Literally all of them. We’re safe.” 

Liam sighs. “You’re an arse,” he says. 

“They do say that you are what you eat,” Louis replies, and Liam finally, finally breaks into real laughter. 

“Get out of here,” he says, pulling away and squeezing Louis’s shoulders. “For God’s sake, get out.” 

Louis salutes again, then turns on his heel. He finds Harry ready for the walk back, waiting with an outstretched arm and his trainers slung over one shoulder. 

They walk down the course in comfortable silence, trading happy glances back and forth. It’s so very easy to forget that Louis is standing in front of a life-defining moment, and once he realises all over again, a ball of worry forms in his stomach. 

That is, until Harry trips and almost pulls them both into the water ditch.

*

Aintree is not terrifying, Louis has decided – Aintree is a hole in time and space.

They spend the entire day there, running around like headless chickens, checking things and signing things and changing and warming up and sneaking kisses (that might only be him and Harry), but the whole thing feels like seconds. Before Louis knows what’s happening, it’s a quarter to five, and the tape is set to rise in precisely half an hour. 

He’s bricking it.

Olly is holding Marshmallow in place, trying to keep her back until Louis gets the go-ahead to mount. She’s stepping from foot to foot, tossing her head, alive and fidgety. Their warmup did nothing to get rid of her nervous energy, and neither did Olly doing up her mane, even though that usually puts her right to sleep. 

Louis, admittedly, feels much the same. Harry is squeezing his hand so hard his fingers are tingling, and the crowd is roaring out by the track; a wind has picked up, tossing Louis’s colours around, making his sleeves billow. He thinks he can see Niall and Ellie, their twin blonde heads bobbing in and out of sight until they’re settled in the first row, all but stuck to the railing. Louis feels touched, and exponentially terrified. 

“Time to go,” Liam says, running up just as Louis puts his fingers to his mouth to bite his nails. Christ. _Christ_.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. “No way we can come back next year?” 

“You’ll be fine,” Liam replies, stern, yet all but jumping in place. “It’s going to be over in less than an hour.” 

“That’s not helping,” says Louis. He’s pretty sure he isn’t hyperventilating. Hopefully. 

Liam claps him on the shoulder. “Up, come on. The Grand National doesn’t wait for anyone. ” 

Louis grits his teeth, breathes out, and steels himself. This is his chance – the last one he’s ever going to get. 

“Yeah,” he nods, though he can’t quite hear himself over the pounding of blood in his temples. “Okay.” 

“Good luck,” Harry whispers. When Louis turns to look at him, he looks a little green around the edges. Despite his pale cheeks and red-bitten lips, though, his smile might be the warmest thing Louis has ever seen. “I love you, and you’ll win it.” 

“I’ll win it,” Louis nods, patting down Harry’s collar. The certainty is heavy in his chest, soothing, and shining right back at him from Harry’s eyes. “I’ll win it all for you, gorgeous.” 

“Go,” Harry says, with a smile so tender it couldn’t possibly be for anyone but Louis. 

Louis kisses him like it’s the first time and the last. “I love you,” he says, grinning now, and then turns away before Harry’s smile lures him into another kiss. 

“Let’s go,” he tells Liam, who immediately drops his clipboard. It clatters to the ground with a flat little _thwack_ and makes Louis laugh. 

They meet by Marshmallow’s side, her stomach expanding with shallow, nervous breaths. Louis hopes he can get her to regulate it before they get on the starting line – this is a long, long race for a horse of her build. She’ll need to listen to him if they want to make it to the end. 

He grabs his crop, and untwists the strap of his goggles in the back. Breathes out again.

“Good luck,” Liam says as he crouches, lacing his fingers. “Be careful out there.” 

Louis puts one foot in his upturned palms before he has time to pull away, just to get Liam’s hands dirty. “We will,” he smiles, crosses his reins, and grabs a hold of the saddle. “Always are, Payno.” 

Liam sighs. “One,” he counts, rolling his shoulders. “Two,” and Marshmallow sidesteps away from them, huffing like she’s proud of her joke. Liam waits until Olly nudges her back to place, checks in with Louis, grabs his shin and grins as he says: “Three.” 

They’ve probably done a thousand leg ups prior to today, and Louis springs right up into the saddle. He lands soft, and Marshmallow stills a little under his weight. 

He can feel Harry’s eye in his back while he ties on, the line of his crop digging into his thigh, the evening sun still strong on the nape of his neck, probably turning it red. His heart flutters to life again, beating against his air jacket like it wants to make a break for it before Louis puts it through this. He can’t exactly blame it, either. 

He closes his eyes and tries to keep a handle on the nerves. Everything is okay. It’s a beautiful day, there’s a breeze that feels just right on his hot cheeks, and he’s going to make it through in one piece. 

His family must be somewhere in the grandstands by now, waiting for him to walk out. They’re here to see him succeed, he reminds himself, not throw up all over himself before the race even starts. 

He hears, vaguely, the announcer’s voice boom over the course, but he can’t make out the words. They seem to spur Olly into moving though, and before Louis can work himself into a full-blown panic, or before he has time to jump out of the saddle and run, he’s being led to the starting line. He manages to turn around at the very last second too see Harry giving him a thumbs up and a smile, happily squinting into the sun.

“You going to be okay?” Olly asks, holding on to clip of his lead as Marshmallow tosses her head. 

“Reckon so,” Louis says, and attempts a smile through the strap of his cap digging into his chin. “See you on the other side.” 

“Don’t break a leg,” Olly grins, and unclips the lead. Marshmallow doesn’t give Louis time for a response and hurls right into the melee out on the turf. 

The parade is just what Louis expected – lots of huffing and head tossing and nervous feet, the jockeys barely paying attention to their horses as they look over their shoulders trying to assess the first fence. 

Louis, too, lets Marshmallow walk off some of the jitters and looks into the distance. The fences rise on the track like waves, building higher towards Becher’s in the back. The orange toe boards pull Louis in like a red flag would a bull, pulling him out of his seat before it’s time. 

“Go steady,” the steward’s voice carries, ringing inside Louis’s skull. The crowd of horses moves like a sea, pushing closer to the starting line, turning in place over and over as the jockeys try to hold them back. A couple remain planted in place even as stable lads and trainers rush out to push them forward, but Louis doesn’t pay them any mind. His horse is more than keen to get this show on the road. 

He finds a gap towards the outer circle, pulls Marshmallow in, and squares his shoulders. Liam’s endless pages of notes all flash before his eyes, lines that he’d highlighted yellow and orange and pink – _forward left after Becher’s, cut in on the Canal Turn, CAREFUL ON VALENTINE’S_. He’d made fun of them earlier, but they’re the only thing actually sticking in his mind right now, reminding him that he needs a strategy to win this. 

There’s a beat of what feels like absolute silence. Louis shakes off his thoughts and squeezes the reins. 

Here they go. 

When the tape rises and he loosens his hold, Marshmallow shoots out like a bullet. Louis just about manages to wrangle her back before it’s time for the first fence – _a lot of fallers there, Louis, can’t go too fast_. 

They sail over it in a beautiful, clean arch, and land fast on their feet. Louis’s limbs are shaking along with the ground underneath, forty horses running like thunder, but this, here, now—this is where he jumps in headfirst. 

He pulls his horse in, and makes his way to the middle of the pack for the second fence, and the massive ditch on the third one. Marshmallow has to stretch there, extending her neck so far forward she nearly pulls Louis out of the saddle, but they make it to the other side. The fourth one is easy, and the fifth one – Louis counts them as they whiz by, and gets more excited with each landing as it rattles his bones. 

Then comes Becher’s. It seems to loom much taller than it actually is, making Louis sweat when he thinks of the lower ground on the other side. Marshmallow has no way of knowing how far they’re going to drop, and he has to be the one to keep her balance. 

“We’ve got this,” he shouts over the wind whining in his ears. “Run, lovely girl, come on!” 

They rise along with a dozen other horses, the spruce just scraping across the soles of Louis’s boots, and then comes the tip. Marshmallow flounders when the ground doesn’t come up to meet them as fast as it should; Louis leans back, clutching his knees around the saddle and holding on for dear life. No amount of training could have prepared him for this, he manages to think – it feels a little like he’s weightless, floating outside the reach of gravity. Like he could fly right up to the sky if he let go. 

The landing pulls him right back to the ground – literally. They land firm, if a little off-balance, and he lets the reins loose as she drops her head. A horse falls on their right, two more on their left, their jockeys rolling along the ground like ragdolls. Louis pushes on. 

“We jumped Becher’s Brook,” he says as they cross Foinavon, even though the wind forces its way into his mouth and steals the words away. He’ll be shouting it as soon as he’s back on the ground, too, where everyone can hear him. Hell, he’ll probably get it tattooed right across his chest. 

The Canal Turn comes up quite tame-looking, but he can see the track turning on the other side, the right angle making him a little sick. They’ve got horses on either side of them, and a couple of free runners on the outside of the track, ahead of everyone without the weight of their riders to slow them down. If any of them get this one wrong, they’re going down.

 _You’ve got to switch leads just before_ , he remembers Liam’s voice, going over the notes for the last time yesterday. _Jump off the left and keep leading left through the turn. Don’t fuck it up._

 __“Don’t fuck it up,” he repeats to himself. “Don’t fuck it up, Louis.”

He slows down, trying to get some space to manoeuvre, should he need to. Marshmallow resists him, but only until another loose horse cuts right through their path and startles her into obeying. Louis’s eyes get caught on it for a second as it clears the fence and keeps running straight, but then Marshmallow squares up for the jump – and flies over it like it’s nothing. She lands left first, exactly the way she’s supposed to, and they balance out the turn without a problem. They push forward and over Valentine’s, careful but fast, and it’s then that Louis has the wits to look around.

They’re not quite middle of the pack anymore. They’ve managed to fight their way in with the front runners, the track almost clear ahead of them. Five more jumps, and the first round is over. They could _win this_. 

Louis knew that, of course, but thinking about it and being here, with the prickly scent of spruce in his nose and the world rushing past like someone smudged it with a paintbrush, are two entirely different things. The thought renews his vigour, gives him the energy to keep pushing despite the pain he’s in, the sweat that’s running hotly down his back. They jump fence after fence with ease, stretching over ditches – and finally, The Chair looms in front of them.

This one’s their main worry, Liam had said, and Louis can see why now. Marshmallow is _small_ ; the raised landing on the other side plays to their advantage, but before they get there, they’ve got to figure out how to get over a six-foot wide ditch. 

There is no strategy for this one. _Just jump_ , Liam had said – and Louis is going to trust his horse to do just that.

The noise of the crowd breaks over them like a wave, thousands of voices getting lost in the wind as they pass the grandstands. Louis likes to imagine he can hear Harry’s voice cheering them on.

He pulls Marshmallow more towards the centre of the track before they come up on the jump, because there’s much more space now that they’ve lost a good half of the field. He doesn’t pay any mind to the other racers, or to the officials pacing worriedly behind the fence – it’s just him and his horse, and if they make it over this jump, they have a chance to go down in history. 

He counts through her pace as they come closer to the toe board. _One-two, one-two, one-two_. She runs on the obstacle solid, confident, but as soon as they rise off the ground, Louis knows they’re in trouble. 

It’s a bizarre feeling, flying over a fence – it takes a fraction of a second, but to Louis it always feels like a moment suspended in time, like he could take his feet out of the stirrups and go on a stroll around the track before the horse makes it to the other side. He has entirely too much time to realise that Marshmallow slipped at the last second – they’re making it over, probably even making it to the other side, but she hasn’t got her feet in order. They might land – they might not. 

Cold, cold dread squeezes his heart when he feels her stretch, extending her legs so far forward it puts them even more off balance. He tugs on the reins once, trying to raise her head, to warn her about the ground on the other side; to slow her momentum for the moment she hits the turf. For fuck’s sake, this fence is where horses break their necks and _die_ —

She stumbles. She lands clumsy and too wide, losing most of her speed, her head dangerously close to the ground. Louis gives her the rein she needs, grabs the saddle with one hand and thinks _no, God no. Not again_. 

He glances to the grandstand, desperately looking for anything, anyone familiar. His family is nowhere to be seen; neither is Harry, or Niall, or even Ellie. They’re here somewhere, and their encouraging words are still ringing in his ears, but none of them are here now—now that he’s probably going to shatter his other leg too—

Marshmallow saves them. As if she was reading Louis’s thoughts—as if she wanted him to feel stupid for thinking she’d let him fall, she finds her balance and untangles her feet. Louis, shaky and a little shell-shocked, barely has time to stand up in the stirrups before she’s zipping down the track again, making up for the distance they’d lost. 

“Fuck!” Louis shouts into the wind, hoping they’re fast enough that the spectators – and the cameras – won’t catch it. There’s a wave of adrenaline rocking his entire body, tightening his fists where he holds on to the reins as he urges his horse to push on forward. They make it through the water jump easily, and through the next four fences, and there’s still a whole lot of track to go, but there are horses in front of them – one, two, three, maybe more – that they have to outrun if they want to come in first. 

Marshmallow seems up to the challenge, anyway. She thunders on like she’s not feeling any exhaustion whatsoever, like they haven’t just left two miles and twenty fences in the dust. 

Becher’s is easy this time, and barely fusses either of them. Louis is quite certain they overtake Balthazar King, and grins into the wind.

Then it’s Foinavon again, and the Canal Turn, both of which Marshmallow takes on with next to no guidance from him. She always had been a fast learner. 

They catch up with another horse on Valentine’s – the jock’s colours look unfamiliar, so Louis can’t quite tell which one it is, but he’s happy to leave them both in the dust. Marshmallow, too, seems fearless now – these fences didn’t stop her the first time around, and they certainly won’t the second. 

They make it over the Booth, cross the road, and pass the Anchor Bridge in the distance. One of their competitors pulls up just before the penultimate obstacle, and there is one more horse left on the track in front of them. 

_One_.

Louis has tears stinging in his eyes over fence twenty-nine, but he’s got them under control by the time they hit thirty – this is not the time for him to fog up his goggles. They jump over it shoulder to shoulder with Many Clouds. Louis feels a little bad for taking his second victory away, but it’s nothing compared to the blinding happiness flooding his chest. 

“Heya!” he shouts, pulling on the until she speeds up, then letting her ride it out. They pull into the elbow, the finish line unobstructed in front of them. Louis’s entire body is shaking as he spurs his horse forward, with his voice because Harry asked him to leave the crop out; she struggles through the last two hundred yards, obviously at the end of her rope but pushing, still pushing, because that’s what Marshmallow does. 

Many Clouds is thundering in just behind them, but they’re on the inner fence, and they’ve got a good two lengths’ advantage. Louis leans forward, all but lets go of the rein, makes himself as light as possible. He’s breathing heavy, and so is Marshmallow; the horizon is rippling in the distance, a blur of green turf and countless faces, the announcer’s voice ringing out hollowly above it all. 

Louis closes his eyes. 

Marshmallow switches leads, takes one last leap, and crosses the finish line.

It’s muscle memory that puts him back in the saddle, that pulls up his horse for him with shaky arms, that accepts back pats and handshakes from the other jockeys as they all meet at the finish. He’s got his eyes closed, his lungs struggling for breath, and only comes up in time to hear, loud and clear, the announcer over the speakers: 

“ _First, number twenty-eight. Girl Almighty_.” 

It’s only now that he beings to realise—when he sees the crowd rippling in the stands as people head home to beat the crowds, and the owners glaring at him while they fuss over their horses; when he sees, amazingly enough, his friends running across the green and to him. 

“Louis!” Olly is shouting, sprinting ahead of everyone and grabbing Marshmallow’s reins even as he jumps in place. “Louis, oh my _God_. Did you see that?” 

Louis’s tongue feels fuzzy in his mouth, too big, like the last ten minutes robbed him of the ability to speak. 

“He _ran_ that,” says Liam as he, too, pulls to a stop in front of them, immediately leaning in to kiss Marshmallow on the nose. “Mate,” he says when he looks up at Louis, and there are tears in his eyes. “That was…” 

Louis blinks, and looks up. There are people, so many people; the sky is still blue, and the little breeze is there too, the one that made him feel a little less nervous while he was standing at the start. 

There is a reporter running towards them, and a dozen people with cameras right on her heels. Everyone, _everyone_ , seems to be looking at them. 

And then, _then_ —

“I won the National,” he whispers, looking down at his hands. “We won the National?” 

Liam laughs. “ _Yes_ we did,” he says. “Louis, we won.” 

“We won.” 

“We won!” Olly repeats, a brilliant smile hiding the smudges of dirt on his cheeks. 

Liam, just as shaky and clumsy and Louis feels, wraps a hand around his wrist. Louis isn’t quite there yet, doesn’t quite realise what just happened, but he does know that he’s never seen his best friend this happy. 

“Thank you,” he says, red-cheeked and looking torn between ten different emotions. “Louis, thank you, I never thought—“ 

“Thank her,” Louis manages a smile, and leans forward until his forehead is resting against Marshmallow’s neck. It’s damp with sweat, but so is Louis himself; it’s quite comforting, actually, a reminder that they really did this, and they did it together. “Did you see the way she held me up?” 

“At the Chair? Course I did. Thought I was gonna have to jump the fence again,” Liam says. His smile turns rueful, just for the second that Louis looks at him. They share a look, just one, but it’s enough to know they’re both thinking the same thing – today’s the day to leave the past in the past. 

Louis extends a hand, and Liam takes it. “Love you, mate,” he says. 

“You too, you absolute twat. You should’ve pulled up after she stumbled,” his words are stern, but he wraps his fingers around Louis’s gloved hand and holds on. “Glad you didn’t, though.” 

Somebody lets Niall and Ellie onto the track, then – Louis can’t see them just yet, but Niall’s shout of “Tommo!” is deafening. 

They come into view soon enough, two bright heads of hair in Louis’s blurred vision. And behind them—behind them is a shape he’d recognise even with his eyes closed. 

“Louis!” Harry calls, breaking right past Louis’s exhausted haze, and finally, finally, everything else trickles in. 

The media people surrounding them suddenly have faces, and the questions they’re already asking make it to Louis’s ears instead of fading out into the air. It smells of turf, and horse, and Louis’s own sweat dripping down his face, and there are horses, there are vets and jockeys and stable hands, there’s cars driving along the track to bring the fallers back to the stables. 

It’s the Grand bloody National, and Louis won it. 

“Louis,” Harry says again, much closer now, pushing through a couple of photographers to get to him. His cheeks are wet, and he’s _beaming_. 

He reaches for Louis’s hand as soon as he’s close enough, and Louis intertwines their fingers without a second thought. He uses his other hand to run a thumb across Harry’s cheek, even though he’s still wearing his gloves. He leaves the delicate skin there red. 

“Babe,” Harry is smiling, smiling, so animated, _happy_. Louis would get right back out there and run ten more of these if it would earn him that smile. “You _won_.” 

“Told you I would, didn’t I?” Louis asks, quiet enough that the cameras waiting nearby shouldn’t catch it. “Just for you.” 

“Liar,” Harry grins. A few tears find their way onto his cheeks, some getting caught in his lashes. They glimmer there like diamonds in the setting sun, as beautiful as everything else about Harry. “This one was for you, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.” 

“Did you watch?” asks Louis. He should be getting off the track, he knows, and off the horse, and into the press corner to get his trophy and pose with it until his arms hurt, but his boy is here, and he’s riding a wave of euphoria that’s only just rising in Louis. He can’t take his eyes off him. 

“Course I watched,” Harry raises an eyebrow. “And only screamed a couple of times. You gave me a scare over there,” he points to the Chair, looking a mess just behind the fence. 

“Sorry, darling,” says Louis, and takes off his gloves to feel Harry’s skin underneath his fingertips. “You had nothing to worry about, though. Our little miracle horse brought me home.” 

Harry smiles. The softness of it makes Louis’s heart ache. “She did,” he nods, and presses the palm of his free hand to Marshmallow’s neck. “Thank you, my love.” 

Marshmallow, exhausted as she must be, bends her neck and buries her nose in his pocket. 

“Mr Tomlinson,” calls someone in the back, hidden by the people that have huddled around them. “If you and your team could come this way, please.” 

“Right,” Harry murmurs. “You won.” 

“I won,” Louis repeats, unable to contain his grin. “You owe me a prize.” 

Harry gets a glint in his eye – Louis recognises it immediately. He smiles, squeezes Harry’s hand, and leans down. 

When Harry puts his hand on Louis’s neck and kisses him, the din of the crowd falls away. They could hear a pin drop as Louis smiles and opens his lips, letting Harry slide his in-between. 

“I love you,” Harry pulls away enough to whisper, and Louis responds in kind. 

Then, Liam gasps next to him, and Niall laughs. A cacophony of questions descends, dozens of camera shutters clicking, making a bizarre kind of excitement pool in Louis’s stomach. 

When Harry pulls him closer, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls his feet out of the stirrups, wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and lets his boy pull him out of the saddle. 

It’s awfully romantic, and Louis can’t remember ever being this happy. 

It’s a good thing that Harry’s holding him, too, because his legs give out as soon as he hits the ground. Every inch of his body is screaming in pain, but it only amplifies the experience, only heightens the excitement that’s rushing through his veins. 

He presses one more kiss to Harry’s bottom lip, then pulls away. Somebody immediately tugs at him, trying to pull him towards the press, people shouting his name and asking him questions and taking picture after picture, noise that barely registers because he’s lost in Harry’s eyes, still. 

“Congratulations,” Harry smiles, and thumbs at the corner of Louis’s eye. It’s only then that Louis realises he’s been crying. “Let’s go bask.” 

Louis grins at him. When he turns to look around, Liam is already halfway down the track, waving at him while speaking to a Sky reporter. 

He hugs his friends: Niall, and Ellie, and Olly; he gives Marshmallow a kiss on the forehead, and she nudges him in the stomach tiredly. He gives his boy another kiss, so thorough it makes someone in the crowd whistle. 

Then he steps away, takes Harry’s hand, and walks to meet the rest of his life.

***

“Mr Tomlinson?” a tiny voice asks. Louis looks away from the screen of his phone to see a set of big blue eyes blinking up at him.

“It’s just Louis, love,” he smiles, and crouches. “Do you need something?” 

The little girl – Emma, Louis is almost sure – sniffles and rubs a small fist over her face. “Mum an’ dad told me to go play, but I can’t find any toys.” 

Louis hides a laugh into the sleeve of his jumper. “We don’t have a whole lot,” he nods. “We’ll work on that, okay? When you come back, you’ll have a whole toy shop to play with.” 

“A _whole_ shop?” her eyes go wide. She’s adorable; Louis feels a little like crying. 

“Pinky promise,” he says, and she reaches out excitedly to entwine her pinky with his. “Tell you what. D’you want to go and have a look around like the bigger kids?” 

Emma frowns a little, pursing her lips. A strand of hair falls into her face, swishing about in the breeze. “Mr Harry said I’m too small.” 

“Well,” Louis grins, “Mr Harry is silly. We can have our own tour, just you and me. How about that?” 

She jumps in place, already halfway out of the gate. “Will I get to see horses?” 

“Of course!” Louis replies. “All of them. I’ll teach you all the names.” 

“Yes,” Emma claps. “Yes, please,” she corrects herself. “Let’s go!” 

And they do. Louis takes her hand, leading her carefully out across the cobblestones they’ve just laid in front of the house, navigating the easiest way for both of them with his cane. They take the tour route the opposite way, starting at the back of the house, where Liam and Ellie aren’t yet done with training for the day. 

“Marshmallow!” Emma squeaks as soon as she sees her zipping down the track, and makes Louis smile.

“You know Marshmallow?” he asks, feigning surprise. The little girl looks up at him, the _duh_ obvious in her raised eyebrow. 

“She won the big race twice in a row! Everyone knows Marshmallow.” 

“She races under a different name, though,” Louis boops her nose. “Not everyone knows what we call her.” 

Emma beams. “I do! Can we please go say hi?” 

Louis pretends to sigh, but he pulls her gently off the path and onto the grass, dew immediately soaking through his trainers. He’s supposed to be having breakfast out in the sun, waiting for Harry to finish the rounds and bring the kids back to the house, where Louis will teach them all about tack. 

This is much nicer, though, no matter how grumpy his wet socks are going to make him. 

“Marshmallow!” Emma squeaks once they’re by the rail, holding on tight to Louis’s hand like she’s worried the horse’s speed will pull her out onto the track. 

“Hello,” Liam turns to them when he hears her. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question, but Louis just shakes his head. _Later_. 

Louis bends down until he’s close to Emma’s ear. “This is Liam,” he stage whispers. “He trains our horses.” 

“He has funny hair,” Emma whispers back. Louis likes her. 

Liam glares a little, but he lets them stand there and watch. Louis lifts Emma up to sit on the railing, and she claps every time Marshmallow manages to clear an obstacle. They’d all had an inhumanely early start to the day, but she makes them smile, and Louis finds himself attached to her after less than half an hour. 

They move on after the training session is done and Emma’s gotten to pet Marshmallow to her heart’s content. They’re slow as they make their way through the grass – Louis would prop her up on his hip, but it’s very much a cane morning this morning, his knee stiff and protesting the slightest movement. 

The next stop is the little hill above the paddock that’s perfect for a nice view of the herd – it’s there that they run into Harry and his gaggle of kids. 

Louis stops a little ways away, before his husband has a chance to notice him, and marvels at the sight. Harry’s got three girls just hanging off of him, grabbing at his sleeves and asking non-stop questions he looks more than happy to answer; the other kids are looking up at him in awe, listening to everything that comes out of his mouth with rapt attention. He’s flinging his arms out wide as he talks about the paddock and names the horses, all grazing in a little cluster just beneath the hill. He loves the kids, and they clearly love him; the whole scene makes Louis ache in the most pleasant of ways. 

Harry seems to feel the very same when he turns around and spots Louis with Emma. His eyes go soft, and the grin on his face melts into a gorgeous smile. 

“Hi there,” he waves as the two of them climb up the hill.

“Hi Mr Harry,” Emma waves back, running head-on into the group, presumably to find her older sister. 

“Hi, love,” says Louis quietly, and gives him a peck on the cheek. It earns a chorus of dutiful _eww_ s from the kids. “How’s it going?” 

“How’s it going, everyone?” Harry asks his crowd. It takes a second, and then they all erupt into excited shouts, all but climbing over each other to get to the front and tell Louis what they’ve learned so far. 

The sight of it makes his heart skip happily in his chest. 

A few years ago, when the reporters on the finish line asked him what’s in store for him next, he never would’ve said it was opening a riding school. Now, he can’t quite remember what it’s like to not have hordes of children around the house, making more noise than should be humanly possible and spreading their infectious enthusiasm for all things horse. He _loves_ doing this, more than he ever thought he would, and Harry is the same; so is Liam, when he has downtime between races and can actually help. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, mostly for Harry. “You just missed Marshmallow, though. You’re too thorough of a guide.” 

Harry grins. “Marshmallow’s famous, they’ve all seen her before. They’ve never heard my story about the cat that got stuck in the drainpipe.” 

“It’s not that great a story, babe,” Louis pats him on the chest. “I’m sure they’d rather watch the two-time Grand National winner train.” 

Harry crosses his arms and pouts. Louis melts at the sight, then dissolves into giggles. 

It’s not long before the kids get bored of standing around, excitedly yelling over each other and leading the way to where their parents are waiting with some tea. Louis walks with Harry, mentally preparing himself to give a lesson. He’s done it dozens of times, and he does enjoy it immensely, but it only took one instance of nine-year-old girls teasing him for his pronunciation of “bridle” to become self-conscious about it. 

It’s good, though. Keeps him on his toes. 

Louis’s knee feels better by the time everyone leaves. He and Harry decide to go for a ride – just the two of them and the remnants of a beautiful summer day. The sun is sitting big and orange just above the horizon, reluctant to leave, and it paints Harry’s hair golden as he squints into the distance. 

He looks beautiful, utterly comfortable in the saddle, like he’s grown up in it. Louis kind of wants to get off his horse and hop up right behind him, though he suspects that Bubble would probably hate him for it. 

As it is, he settles for holding Harry’s hand in the space between them as they walk down the hill, losing sight of the house. Harry smiles at him, tired but wholly content; Louis smiles back.

He’s settled in this, now, but he’ll never get used to it. Harry is the most familiar thing in the world, but Louis still feels a little shock of happiness every time he wakes up to find him on the other side of the bed. They’ve got wedding pictures and anniversary pictures and _I thought you looked really pretty there_ pictures hung up in the rooms and halls and corridors of their house, pictures of them in the grandstands at the races, of them with Marshmallow, with trophy after trophy, with Niall and Liam after they pushed them into a broom closet and wouldn’t let them leave until they snogged. Their lives adorn the walls of their house, and Louis walks past all of them every morning just to remind himself of how lucky he is – but Harry, and only Harry, is the one who makes it a home. Louis would follow him to the ends of the Earth; it’s lucky, really, that they’re both perfectly content building a life right here. 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Harry starts, grinning into the sunset. Louis waits for him to continue, but as they walk on, there’s only silence. 

“You’ve been thinking…” 

“Right. Um. You like having the kids around, right?” he asks. He’s acting sheepish, but there’s no trace of it in his tone. 

Louis bites his lip. “Do you want to, like…do summer camps, or something? Sleepovers?” 

Harry laughs. It rings out beautiful and clear in the quiet around them, echoing back off the hills. “I was thinking something more permanent, actually.” 

It’s then that Louis gets it, and he has to stop his horse lest he fly out of the saddle with the zip of excitement that runs down his spine. 

“ _Harry Styles_ ,” he says, more accusatory than he’d intended. “Are you telling me you want to have a baby? Like—now?” 

Harry stops Bubble as well, and turns around to face him. He looks like he’s holding back a laugh. 

“Not right this minute,” he says, “but—yeah. Yes. Let’s have a baby. The first of many, obviously.” 

“Are you serious?” Louis asks, even though the answer is obvious. 

The thing is, he’s been thinking about it more and more, lately – they’ve been married for almost two years, and they’re not getting any younger. They’ve got so much space, and so much love to give, and he just knows, he knows that Harry will make the absolute best father. 

He didn’t get as far as figuring out how to suggest it to Harry but, naturally, he needn’t have worried about that. 

“Of course I’m serious!” Harry replies, pressing an offended hand to his chest. He’s smiling, still smiling, and Louis feels his own face contorting from a grin to a grimace as a lump rises in his throat. 

He will _not_ cry, for God’s sake. 

“Come here,” he says. Harry looks confused, but he moves Bubble forward, coming closer. As soon as he’s within reach, Louis takes him by the collar, yanks him closer, and kisses him. 

He ignores the sound of fabric ripping. It’s an old t-shirt – at least he hopes it is. 

“Lou,” Harry mumbles against his lips, but he doesn’t make an effort to pull away, melting into it until he’s all but standing in his stirrups, warm and real in Louis’s space. “Lou—“ 

“Shush,” Louis grins. “Gorgeous boy, I love you so much, do you know that?” 

“I figured that time you asked me to marry you,” he grins back. One of his hands has come up to cup Louis’s cheek, soft, soft. “And I love you too, but you didn’t answer the question. Babies, as soon as we can make them happen – yes or no?” 

Louis laughs – giggles, really, because he doesn’t know what to do with all this happiness.

“Yes,” he gives Harry a peck. “Yes, oh my God. Yes. I would love nothing more.” 

“Yeah?” Harry pulls away. His eyes are shining, reflecting the sky that’s starting to turn inky blue, the first stars shimmering right there in his irises. He’s so very real and just a little shaky in Louis’s arms, his universe of a boy. 

“Yes,” he repeats again. “Yes, yes, _yes_. Please.” 

And they’re right on the same page, then, because Harry whoops and hugs him and promptly bursts into tears. He laughs through them, though, and Louis himself blubbers a little while he holds him and runs his hands through his hair. 

“We’re having a baby,” Harry says into his neck with a ridiculous smile.

“Mhm,” Louis nods. “You want to find some bushes and try right now?” 

Harry pulls away with a cackle. He wipes his tears, and just like that, his brilliant smile is the only remnant of the conversation they just had.

That, and the star that seems to be in the process of exploding right in the centre of Louis’s chest. 

_This is forever_ , he thinks. 

_Duh_ , the pale moon in the sky seems to answer.

“Race you home,” Harry grins – and he and Bubble take off before Louis can get a word in. 

He does race after them, but he doesn’t push too hard. There is no trophy to be won, not anymore; and he knows Harry will wait no matter how long Louis takes to come back to him. 

It’s quite the miracle, he thinks as the wind whistles around his ears, that he’s found everything he’s ever wanted – and none of it lay beyond a finish line. 

_~fin_

**Author's Note:**

> aaron also drew some EXCELLENT art of niam being locked in a cupboard. feast your eyes along with me:
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> many thanks if you actually read all the way to the end. you're a superstar, and you're welcome to come shout at me about anything, fic-related or otherwise, on [tumblr](http://hattalove.tumblr.com).
> 
> have a nice day ♥


End file.
